4 ak proc ye , pegs beoe |
CL te Ks a" ) Peter vf fas . nr. ae. alt et - Bea
mal ae yatiey ts F ‘eee “rau a ’ ete te
: 5 358 el eee te!
, Riga iis ve Pa ~ FG ae
; te
Pe
¢
;
a 4 dvr ot. ote Dike poy ql
have <- &
ye
7
SOL TTI OBIE rig orn
SS SS
—? ne
ore
|
= Z . LY 7) DA i)
A JR LME LL I AT
Bae a
NICHOLAS AND SMIKE.
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
AT
LHE YORKSHIRE. SCHOOE,
BY
Gira hoo DICK HE NS:
AS CONDENSED BY HIMSELF, FOR HIS
RHADINGS.
BOSTON:
ate ALN De SiH BoAGR DD.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1879.
Gav’s Hitt, HicHAm By RocHESTER, KENT,
Tenth October, 1867.
The edition bearing the imprint of Messrs. T1cKNOR AND FIELDS is
the only correct and authorized edition of my Reap1Ncs.
; CHARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
UnIversITy Press: WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co.
CAMBRIDGE.
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
FOUR CHAPTERS.
eee ieee
CHAP TE RAT.
ICHOLAS NICKLEBY, in the nineteenth year
of his age, arrived at eight o’clock of a No-
vember morning at the sign of the Saracen’s Head,
Snow Hill, London, to join Mr. Squeers, the York-
shire schoolmaster. He had engaged himself to
Mr. Squeers as his scholastic assistant, on the
faith of the following advertisement in the London
papers : —
‘‘Kpucation.—At Mr. Wackford Squeers’s Acad-
~ emy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of
Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth
are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-
money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in
all languages living and dead, mathematics, or-
thography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the
use of the globes, algebra, single stick (if required),
writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other
branch of classical literature. Terms, twenty
guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and
diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and
attends daily, from one till four, at the Saracen’s
4 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted.
Annual Salary, £5. A Master of Arts would be
preferred.”
Mr. Squeers was standing by one of the coffee-
room fireplaces, and his appearance was not pre-
‘possessing. He had but one eye, and the popular
prejudice runs-in favor of two. The blank side of
his face was much puckered up, which gave him a
sinister appearance, especially when he smiled ; at
which times his. expression bordered on the vil-
lanous. He wore a white neckerchief with long
ends, and a scholastic suit of 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 respectable.
The learned gentleman had before himself a
breakfast of coffee, hot toast, and cold round of
beef; but he was at that moment intent on pre-
paring another breakfast for five little boys.
‘This is twopenn’orth of milk is it, waiter?”
said Mr. Squeers, looking down into a large mug.
«‘ That ’s twopenn’orth, sir.”
«¢ What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in Lon-
don! Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water,
William, will you? ”’
“To the wery top, sir? Why, the milk will be
drownded.”’
‘« Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered
that thick bread and butter for three, did you?”
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. ' 3
«‘ Coming directly, sir.”’
‘You need n’t hurry yourself; there ’s plenty
of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don’t
be eager after vittles.” As he uttered this moral
precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the
cold beef, and recognized Nicholas.
«Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a
breakfasting, you see!”’
Nicholas did not see that anybody was _ break-
fasting except Mr. Squeers.
‘OQ, that ’s the milk and water, is it, William ?
Here’s richness! Think of the many beggars
and orphans in the streets that would be glad of
this, little boys. When I say number one, the boy
on the left hand, nearest the window, may take a_
drink ; and when I say number two, the boy next
him will go in, and so till-we come to number five.
Are you ready? ”’
BY eg. sir. 's
~ “ Keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue
your appetites, and you’ve conquered human na-
tur. This is the way we inculcate strength of
mind, Mr. Nickleby.”’
Nicholas murmured something in reply; and the
little boys remained in torments of expectation.
‘Thank God for a good breakfast. Number one
may take a drink.”’
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had
just drunk enough to make him wish for more,
when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two,
6 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
who gave up at the like interesting moment to
number three ; and the process was repeated until
the milk and water terminated with number five.
«« And now,”’ said the schoolmaster, dividing the
bread and butter for three into five portions, ‘‘ you
had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the
coach-horn will blow in a minute or two, and then
every boy leaves off.”’
The boys began to eat voraciously, while the
schoolmaster (who was in high good-humor after
his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and looked
on. Ina very short time the horn was heard. — _
“JT thought it would n’t be long,” said Squeers,
jumping up and producing a little basket; “ put
what you haven’t had time to eat in here, boys!
You ’ll want it on the road !”’
They certainly did want it on the road, and very
much, too; for the journey was long, the weather
was intensely cold, a great deal of snow fell from
time to time, and the wind was intolerably keen.
Mr. Squeers got down at almost every stage, —
to stretch his legs, he said, — and as he always
came back with a very red nose, and composed
himself to sleep directly, the stretching seemed to
answer. It was a long journey; but the longest
lane has a turning at last, and late in the night the
coach put them down at a lonely roadside inn,
where they found in waiting two laboring men,
a rusty pony-chaise, and a cart.
‘‘ Put the boys and the boxes into the cart, and
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 7
this young man and me will go on in the chaise.
Get in, Nickleby.”
Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some diffi-
culty inducing the pony to obey too, they started
off, leaving the cart-load of infant misery to follow
at leisure.
‘“« Are you cold, Nickleby ? ”’
‘¢ Rather, sir, I must say.”’
“ Well, I don’t find fault with that. It’s a long
journey this weather.”’
‘Tg it much further to Dotheboys Hall, sir ? ”’
‘‘ About three mile. But you need n’t call it a
Hall down here.”’
Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know
why.
‘The fact is, it ain’t a Hall.”
‘“ Indeed! ”’ ;
‘“No. We call it a Hall up in London, because
it sounds better, but they don’t know it by that.
“name in these parts. A man may call his house
an island if he likes; there ’s no act of Parliament
against that, I believe ?”’
Squeers eyed him at the conclusion of this little
dialogue, and, finding that he had grown thought-
ful, contented himself with lashing the pony until
they reached their journey’s end. |
“Jump out. Come in.”’
Nicholas had time to observe that the school was
a long, cold-looking house, one story high, with a
few straggling out-buildings. Mr. Squeers, havy-
8 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY |
ing boltéd the house door to keep it shut, ushered
him into a small parlor scantily furnished, where
they had not been a couple of minutes when a
female bounced into the room, and, seizing Mr.
Squeers by the throat, gave him two loud kisses, —
one close after the other, like a postman’s knock.
This lady was of a large, raw-boned figure, about a
head taller than Mr. Squeers, and was dressed in
a dimity night-jacket, with her hair in papers and
a dirty nightcap. - (She was accustomed to boast
that she was no grammarian, thank God; and also
that she had tamed a high spirit or two'in her day.
Truly, in conjunction with her worthy husband,
she had broken many and many a one.)
‘“‘ How is my Squeery ? ”
‘‘ Quite well, my love. How ’s the cows?”
‘‘ The cows is all right, every one of ’em.”’
** And the pigs? ”
‘“‘The pigs is as well as they was when you went
away.”’ ;
“Come! That’s a blessing! The boys are all
as they were, I suppose ? ”’ |
“QO yes, the boys is well enough. Only that
‘young Pitcher ’s had a fever.”’ |
‘“No! Damn that chap, he’s always at some-
thing of that sort.’’ ;
Pending these endearments, Nicholas had stood,
awkwardly enough, in the middle of the room, —
_ not very well knowing whether he was expected to
retire into the passage. -He was now relieved
from his perplexity by Mr. Squeers.
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. gi
‘This is the new young man, my dear.”’
Here a young servant-girl brought in some cold
beef; and this being set upon the table, a boy, ad-
dressed by the name of Smike, appeared with a jug
of ale. ,
Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets
of letters and other small documents he had brought
down. The boy glanced, with an anxious and
timid expression, at the papers, as if with a sickly
hope that one among them might relate to him.
The look was a very painful one, and went to
Nicholas’s heart at once; for it told a long and
very sad history.
It induced him to consider the boy more atten-
tively, and he was surprised to observe the extraor-
dinary mixture of garments which formed his
dress. Although he could not have been less than
eighteen or nineteen, and was tall for that age, he
wore a skeleton suit, such as was then usually put
upon a very little boy. In order that the lower
part of his legs might be in keeping with this sin-
gular 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 a
tattered child’s frill, only half concealed by a coarse
man’s neckerchief. He was lame; and as he
feigned to be busy in arranging the table, he
glanced at the letters with a look so keen, and
af
10 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
yet so dispirited and hopeless, that Nicholas could
hardly bear to watch him.
“What are you bothering about there, Smike?”’
cried Mrs. Squeers ; ‘‘ let the things alone, can’t
you?”
eth! 0) iat? eeyou, ast 02?
‘‘Yes, sir. Is there —’’
“Well! What are you stammering at? ”’
‘‘ Have you— did anybody — has nothing been
heard —.about me ? ”’
‘Devil a bit, not a word, and never will be.
Now this is a pretty sort of thing, is n’t it, that
you should have been left here, all these years,
and no money paid after the first six, nor no no,
tice taken, nor no clew to be got who you belong
to? It’s a pretty sort of thing that I should have
to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to
get a penny for it, is n’t it? ”’
The boy put his hand to his head, as if he were
making an effort to recollect something, and then,
looking vacantly at his questioner, gradually broke
into a smile, and limped away.
“‘T7ll tell you what, Squeers, I think that young
chap ’s turning silly.’’
“T hope not, for he’s a handy fellow out of
doors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway.
Hows’ever, I should think he’d have wit enough
for us, if he was silly. But come! Let ’s have
supper, for 1’m hungry and tired, and want to get
to bed.”’
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 11
This reminder brought in an exclusive steak for
Mr. Squeers, and Nicholas had a tough bit of
cold beef. Mr. Squeers then took a Bumper of
hot brandy and water of a stiff nature, and Mrs.
Squeers made the new young man the Ghost of a
small glassful of that compound.
Then Mr. Squeers yawned again, and opined
that it was time to go to bed; upon which signal
Mrs. Squeers and the girl dragged in a straw mat-
tress and a couple of blankets, and- arranged them
into a couch for Nicholas.
“We ’ll put you inté your regular bedroom to-
morrow, Nickleby. Let me see! Who sleeps in
Brooks’s bed, my dear ? ”’
‘In Brooks’s, there ’s Jennings, little Bolder,
Graymarsh, and What’s-his-name.”’
‘So there is. Yes! Brooks is full.”
‘‘There ’s a place somewhere, I know, but I
can’t at this moment call to mind where. How-
ever, we ’ll have that all settled to-morrow. Good
night, Nickleby. Seven o’clock in the morning,
mind.”’ !
‘‘ T shall be ready, sir. Good night.”’
‘TI don’t know, by the by, whose towel to put
you on; but if you ’ll make shift with something
to-morrow morning, Mrs. Squeers will arrange that
in the course of the day. My dear, don’t forget.”
Mr. Squeers then nudged Mrs. Squeers to bring
away the brandy-bottle, lest Nicholas should help
himself in the night ; and the lady having seized it
with great precipitation, they retired together.
‘12 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
CHAPTER i.
RIDE of two hundred and odd miles in win.
A ter weather is a good softener of a hard
bed. Perhaps it is even a sweetener of dreams,
for those which came to Nicholas, and whispered
their airy nothings, were of a happy kind. He
was making his fortune very fast indeed —in his
sleep — when the faint glimmer of a candle shone
before his eyes, and Mr. Squeers’s voice admon-
ished him that it was time to get up.
‘‘ Past seven, Nickleby ! ”
‘Has morning come already ? ”’
‘Ah! that has it, and ready iced too. Now,
Nickleby, come ; tumble up!”
Nicholas ‘‘ tumbled up,” and proceeded to dress
himself by the light of Mr. Squeers’s candle.
‘Here ’s a pretty go,” said that gentleman ;
“the pump ’s froze.”
“Indeed !”
‘Yes. You can’t wash yourself this morning.”
‘‘ Not wash myself! ”’
“* Not a bit of it. So you must be content with
giving yourself a dry polish, till we break the ice
in the well, and get a bucketful out for the boys.
Don’t stand staring at me, but look sharp! ”
Nicholas huddled on his clothes ; and Squeers,
arming himself with his cane, led the way across
a yard to a door in the rear of the house.
*
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 13
‘‘There! This is our shop, Nickleby !”
A bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows
of which a tenth part might be of glass, the remain-
der being stopped up with old copy-books and pa-
per. A couple of old desks, cut and notched and
inked and damaged in every possible way ; two or
three forms; a detached desk for Squeers; an-
other for his assistant. Walls so discolored that
it was impossible to tell whether they had ever
been touched with paint or whitewash.
But the pupils! Pale and haggard faces, lank
and bony figures, children with the countenances of
old men, deformities with irons upon their limbs,
boys of stunted growth, and boys whose long
meagre legs would hardly bear their bodies. There
were little faces, which ought to have been hand-
some, darkened with the scowl of dogged suffer-
ing ; there was childhood with the light of its eye
quenched, its beauty gone, its helplessness alone
remaining ; there were large boys, brooding, like
malefactors in jail; and there were young crea-
tures on whom the sins of their frail parents had
descended, weeping even for the nurses they had
known, and lonesome even in their loneliness.
With every sympathy and affection blasted in its
birth, with every healthy feeling flogged and starved -
down, with every revengeful passion that can fester
in hearts eating its evil way to their core, what
an incipient Hell!
The boys took their places and their books, of
14 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
which latter commodity the average might be
about one to a dozen learners. A few minutes
having elapsed, during which Mr. Squeers looked
very profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension
of what was inside all the books, and could say
every word of their contents by heart, if he chose,
that gentleman called up the first class.
There ranged themselves in front of the school-
master’s desk half a dozen scarecrows, out at knees
and elbows, one of whom placed a ragged book
beneath his learned eye.
‘‘This is the first class in English spelling and
philosophy, Nickleby. Well get up a Latin one,
and hand that over to you. Now, then, where’s
the first boy ?” |
‘« Please, sir, he ’s cleaning the back-parlor win-
dow,” said the temporary head of the philosophical
class.
‘So he is, to be sure. We go upon the prac-
tical mode of teaching, Nickleby ; the regular edu-
cation system. O-l-e-a-n, clean, verb active, to
make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, win-
der, a casement. When the boy knows this out of
book, he goes and does it. It’s just the same
principle as the use of the globes. Where’s the
second boy?” :
‘‘ Please, sir, he’s weeding the garden.’’
‘‘To be sure. So he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin,
bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, noun substantive, a
knowledge of plants. When he has learned that
AT THE.YORKSHIRE, SCHOOL. 15
bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he goes
and knows ’em. That’s our system. Nickleby.
Third boy, what ’s a horse ? ”
‘A beast, sir? ”’
“So itis. Ain’t it, Nickleby ? ”
‘¢T believe there is no doubt of that, sir.’’
‘Of course there ain’t. A horse is a quadruped,
and quadruped’s Latin for beast. As you ’re per-
fect in that, boy, go and look after my horse, and
rub him down well, or I ’Il rub you down. The
rest of the class go and draw water up till some-
body tells you to leave off, for it’s washing-day to-
morrow, and they want the coppers filled.”
So saying, he dismissed the first class to their
experiments in practical philosophy, and eyed
Nicholas with a look, half cunning and half doubt-
ful, as if he were not altogether certain what he »
might think of him by this time.
‘That ’s the way we do it, Nickleby, and a very
good way it is. Now, just take them fourteen
little boys and hear them some reading, because,
_ you know, you must begin to be useful, and idling
_ about here won’t do.”’ |
It was Mr. Squeers’s custom to call the boys to-
gether and make a sort of report after every half-
yearly visit to the metropolis. So, in the after. |
noon, the boys were recalled from house-window,
garden, stable, and cow-yard, and the school were
assembled in full conclave.
‘‘ Let any boy speak a word without leave,’ said
16 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
Mr. Squeers, ‘‘and I'll take the skin off that boy’s
back.”
Death-like silence immediately prevailed.
‘‘ Boys, I’ve been to London, and have returned
to my family and you as strong and as well as
ever.”
The boys gave three feeble cheers at this refresh-
ing intelligence. Such cheers !
‘‘T have seen the parents of some boys,” con-
tinued Squeers, turning over his papers, ‘‘ and
they ’re so glad to hear how their sons are getting
on, that there’s no prospect at all of their sons
going away. — Which of course is a very pleasant
thing to reflect upon for all parties.”
Two or three hands went to two or three eyes,
but the greater part of the young gentlemen —
having no particular parents to speak of — were
uninterested in the thing one way or other.
‘“‘T have had disappointments to contend against.
Bolder’s father was two pound ten short. Where
is Bolder? Come here, Bolder.”
An unhealthy-looking boy, with warts all over
his hands, stepped from his place to the master’s
desk, and raised his eyes to the face; his own quite
white from the rapid beating of his heart.
‘‘ Bolder,” speaking slowly, for he was consider-
ing, as the saying goes, where to have him, — “ Bol-
der, if your father thinks that because — Why,
what ’s this, sir?”
He caught up the boy’s hand by the cuff of his
jacket.
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. , 17
‘* What do you call this, sir? ”
“‘T can’t help the warts indeed, sir. They will
come ; it’s the dirty work, I think, sir, — at least
1 don’t know what it is, sir, but it’s not my fault.”
‘‘ Bolder, you ’re an incorrigible young scoun.
Jrel; and as the last thrashing did you no good,
ve must see what another will do towards beating
¢ out of you.’’
Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him
eoundly. |
‘There, rub away as hard as you like, you won’t
rub that off in a hurry. Now let us see. A letter
for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey.”
Another boy stood up and eyed the letter very
hard, while Squeers made a mental abstract of it.
‘‘O, Cobbey’s grandmother is dead, and his
uncle John has took to drinking! Which is all
the news his sister sends, except eighteen-pence,
which will just pay for that broken Square of
glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you take the
money ?”’
‘‘Graymarsh, he’s the next. Stand up, Gray-
marsh.”’
Another boy stood up.
‘‘Graymarsh’s maternal aunt is very glad to hear
he ’s so well and happy, and sends her respectful
compliments to Mrs. Squeers, and thinks she must
be a angel. She likewise thinks Mr. Squeers is too
good for this world ; but hopes he may long be
spared to carry on the business. Would have sent
2
18 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
_ the two pair of stockings as desired, but is short
of money, so forwards a tract instead. Hopes,
above all things, that.Graymarsh will study to
please Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them
as his only friends; and that he will love Master
Squeers ; and not object to sleeping five in a bed,
which no Christian should. Ah! a delightful letter.
Very affecting indeed.”’
It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh’s
maternal aunt was strongly supposed, by her more
intimate friends, to be his maternal parent.
‘« Mobbs’s mother-in-law took to her bed on hear-
ing that he would n’t eat fat, and has been very ill
ever since. She wishes to know, by an early post,
where he expects to go to, if he quarrels with his
vittles ; and with what feelings he could turn up
his nose at the cow’s-liver broth, after his good
master had asked a blessing on it. This was told
her in the London newspapers, — not by Mr.
Squeers, for he is too kind and too good to set
anybody against anybody. Mobbs’s mother-in-law
is sorry to find Mobbs is discontented, which is
sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will flog
him into a happier state of mind ; with this view
she has also stopped his half-penny a week pocket-
money, and given a double-bladed knife with a
corkscrew in it, which she had bought on purpose
for him, to the Missionaries. A sulky state of
feeling won’t do. Cheerfulness and contentment
must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!”’
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 19
The unhappy Mobbs moved slowly towards
the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of good
cause for doing so; and soon afterwards retired
by the side door, with as good cause as a boy need
have.
Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscella-
neous collection of letters ; some enclosing money,
which Mrs. Squeers ‘‘ took care of’’; and others
referring to small articles of apparel, as caps and
so forth, all of which the same lady stated to be
too large, or too small, for everybody but young
Squeers, who would appear to have had most ac-
commodating limbs, since everything that came
into the school fitted him.
_ In course of time Squeers retired to his fireside,.
leaving Nicholas to take care of the boys in the
school-room, which was very cold, and where a
meal of bread and cheese was served out shortly
after dark.
There was a small ‘stove at that corner of the
room which was nearest to the master’s desk, and
_by it Nicholas sat down, depressed and self-de-
graded. As he was absorbed in meditation, he
encountered the upturned face of Smike, on his
knees before the stove, picking a few cinders from -
the hearth and planting them on the fire. When
he saw that he was observed, he shrunk back, ex-
pecting a blow.
‘You need not fear me. Are you cold?”
“¢ N-n-o.”’
20 - NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
‘‘ You are shivering.”
‘“‘T am not cold. Iam used to it.”’
‘* Poor broken-spirited creature ! ”’
If he had struck the wretched object, he would
have slunk away without a word. But now he
burst into tears. ©
“QO dear! O dear! My heart will break! It
will, it will!”
‘‘Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by
years, God help you.”
‘‘ By years! O dear, dear! how many of them!
How many of*them since I was a little child,
younger than any that are here now! Where are
they all?”
‘‘ Whom do you speak of? ”
‘“My friends, myself, —my— 0, what suffer-
ings mine have been!”
‘There is always hope.”
‘“No, no; none forme. Do you remember the
boy that died here ? ”’ |
‘‘T was not here, you know, but what of him ?”
‘‘T was with him at night, and when it was all
silent, he cried no more for friends he wished to
come and sit with him, but began to see faces
round his bed that came from home: he said they
smiled and talked to him; and he died at last lift-
ing his head to kiss them. What faces will smile
on me when I die! Who will talk to me in those
long, long nights! They cannot come from home;
they would frighten me, if they did; for I don’t
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 21
know what home is. Pain and fear, pain and fear
for me, alive or dead. No hope, no hope!”’
The bell rang to bed; and the boy crept away.
With a heavy heart Nicholas soon afterwards re-
tired, — no, not retired; there was no retirement
there, — followed, — to the dirty and crowded dor-
mitory.
22 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
CHAPTER III.
ISS FANNY SQUEERS was in her three-
and-twentieth year. If there be any grace
or loveliness quite inseparable from that period of —
life, Miss Squeers must be presumed to have been
possessed of it. She was not tall like her mother,
but short like her father, — from whom she inherit-
ed a remarkable expression of the right eye, some-
thing akin to having none at all. ;
Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with
a neighboring friend, and had only just returned to
the parental roof. Questioning the servant regard-
ing the outward appearance and demeanor of Mr.
Nickleby, the girl returned such enthusiastic re.
plies, coupled with so many praises of his beautiful
dark eyes, and his sweet smile, and his straight
legs, — upon which last-named articles she laid
particular stress; the general run of legs at Dothe-
boys Hall being crooked, — that Miss Squeers was
not long in arriving at the conclusion that the new
usher must be a very remarkable person, or, as
she herself significantly phrased it, ‘ something
quite out of the common.”’ And so Miss Squeers
made up her mind that she would take a per-
sonal observation of Nicholas the very next day
In pursuance of this design, the young lady
watched the opportunity of her mother being en-
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 23
gaged, and her father absent, and went accidentally
into the school-room to get a pen mended; where,
seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over the
boys, she blushed very deeply, and exhibited great
confusion.
‘‘T beg your pardon, I thought my pa was — or
might be — Dear me, how very awkward !”’
‘“Mr. Squeers is out.”
‘Do you know will he be long, sir? ”’
“ He said about an hour.”
‘Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am
sure.’”’ Miss Squeers said this, glancing from the
pen in her hand to Nicholas at his desk, and back
again.
‘Tf that is all you want,’’ said Nicholas, point-
ing to the pen, ‘‘ perhaps I can supply his place.”’
Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious
of the propriety of advancing nearer to a male
stranger; then glanced round the school-room, as
though in some measure reassured by the presence
of forty boys; then sidled up to Nicholas, and de-
livered the pen into his hand.
‘« Shall it be a hard or a soft nib ?”’
“He has a beautiful smile,’ thought Miss
Squeers. ‘‘ As soft as possible, if you please.”
Miss Squeers sighed. It might be to give Nicholas }
to understand that her heart was soft, and that the
pen was wanted to match.
Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen,
and when he gave it to Miss Squeers, Miss Squeers
24 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
dropped it; and when he stooped to pick it up,
Miss Squeers stooped too, and they knocked their
heads together; whereat five-and-twenty little boys
laughed, — being positively for the first and only
time that half-year.
Said Miss Squeers, as she walked away, ‘‘I never
saw such legs in the whole course of my life!”’
In fact, Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas
Nickleby.
To account for the rapidity with which this youn e
lady had conceived a passion for Nicholas, it may
be necessary to state, that the friend from whom
she had so recently returned was a miller’s daugh-
ter of only eighteen, who had engaged herself unto
the son of a small corn-factor, resident in the near-
est market town. Miss Squeers and the miller’s
daughter, being fast friends, had covenanted to-
gether some two years ago (according to a custom
prevalent among young ladies) that whoever was
first engaged to be married should straightway
confide the mighty secret to the bosom of the other;
in fulfilment of which pledge the miller’s daughter,
when. her engagement was formed, came out ex-
press, — at eleven o’clock at night, as the corn-
factor’s son made an offer of his hand and heart at
twenty-five minutes after ten by the Dutch clock
in the kitchen, — and rushed into Miss Squeers’s
bedroom with the gratifying intelligence. Now
Miss Squeers, being five years older, had since,
been more than commonly anxious to return the
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 25
compliment ; but, either in consequence of finding
it hard to please herself, or harder still to please
anybody else, she had never had an opportunity so
to do. The little interview with Nicholas had no
sooner passed, than Miss Squeers, putting on her
bonnet, made her way, with great precipitation,
to her friend’s house, and revealed how that she
was — not exactly engaged, but going to be — to
a gentleman’s son (none of your corn-factors) — to
a gentleman’s son of high descent, who had come
down as teacher to Dotheboys Hall, under most
mysterious and remarkable circumstances. Indeed,
as Miss Squeers more than hinted, induced by the
fame of her many charms, to seek her out, and woo
and win her.
‘* How I should like to see him!”’ exclaimed the
friend.
‘So you shall, ’Tilda ; I should consider myself
one of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if I de-
nied you. I think mother’s going away for two
days to fetch some boys; and when she does, I ’ll
ask you and your Intended, John Browdie, up to
tea, and have him to meet you.”’
It so fell out, that Mrs. Squeers’s journey was
fixed that afternoon for next day.
Whenever such an opportunity occurred, it was
Mr. Squeers’s custom to drive over to the market .
town, every evening, on pretence of urgent busi-
ness, and stop till ten or eleven o’clock at a tavern
he much affected. As the contemplated party was
26 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
not in his way, therefore, but rather afforded a
means of compromise with Miss Squeers, he readily
yielded his assent, and willingly told Nicholas that
he was expected to take his tea in the parlor that
evening at five o’clock. )
To be sure Miss Squeers was in a flutter, and to .
be sure she was dressed out to the best advantage,
with her hair (she wore it in a crop) curled in
five distinct rows, up to the very top of her head,
and arranged over the doubtful eye ; to say noth-
ing of the blue sash which floated down her back,
or the worked apron, or the long gloves, or the
scarf of green gauze worn over one shoulder and
under the other; or any of the numerous devices
which were to be as so many arrows to the heart
of Mr. Nickleby. Sle had scarcely completed
these arrangements, when the friend arrived.
The servant brought in the tea-things, and soon
afterwards somebody tapped at the room door.
‘‘There he is! O ’Tilda! I do so palpitate ! ”
‘Hush! Hem! Say, come in.”’
‘Come in.’? And in walked Nicholas.
‘Good evening,’’ said that young gentleman,
all unconscious of his conquest. ‘‘I understood
from Mr. Squeers that I was expected.”’
“QO yes, it’s all right! Father don’t tea with
us, but you won’t mind that, I dare say. We are
only waiting for one more gentleman.”
‘‘ Well,’”’? thought Nicholas, ‘‘as I am here, and
seem expected to be amiable, it’s of no use look-
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. “2S
ing like a goose. I may as well accommodate my-
self to the company.”’ So he saluted Miss Squeers
and the friend with gallantry, and drew a chair to
the tea-table, and began to make himself probably
as much at home as ever an usher was in his prin-
cipal’s parlor.
The ladies were in full delight at this, when the
expected swain arrived (with his hair damp from
washing) in a clean shirt, whereof the collar might
have belonged to some giant ancestor, and a white
waistcoat of similar dimensions.
‘Well, John,” said Miss Matilda Price (which,
by the by, was the name of the miller’s daughter).
‘‘ Weel,”’ said John, with a grin that even the
collar could not conceal.
‘‘T beg your pardon,” interposed Miss Squeers,
hastening to do the honors, ‘‘ Mr. Nickleby, — Mr.
John Browdie.”’
‘‘ Servant, sir,’’? said John, who was about six
feet six, with a face and body rather above the due
proportion.
‘« Yours, sir,” replied. Nicholas, making fearful
ravages on the bread and butter.
Mr. Browdie was not a gentleman of great con-
versational powers, so he grinned twice more, and
having now bestowed his customary mark of rec-
ognition on every person in company, grinned at
uothing particular, and helped himself to food.
“ Old wooman awa’, bean’t she ? ”’
Miss Squeers nodded assent.
28 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
Mr. Browdie gave a grin of special width, as if
he thought that really was something to laugh at,
and went to work at the bread and butter with
vigor. It was quite a sight to behold how he and
Nicholas emptied the plate between them.
‘‘ Ye wean’t get bread and butther ev’ry neight,
I expect, mun,” said Mr. Browdie, after he had sat
staring at Nicholas a long time over the empty
plate. ‘‘Ecod, they dean’t put too much intiv ’em.
Ye ’ll be nowt but skeen and boans, if you stop here
long eneaf. Ho! ho! ho!”
‘‘ You are facetious, sir.”’
‘Na; I dean’t know, but t’ oother teacher, ’cod
he wur a learn ’un, he wur.’’
The recollection of the last teacher’s leanness
seemed to afford Mr. Browdie the most exquisite
delight.
‘‘T don’t know whether your perceptions are
quite keen enough, Mr. Browdie, to enable you to
understand that your remarks are offensive, but
they are —”’ i
Miss Price stopped her admirer’s mouth as he
was about to answer. ‘‘ If you say another word,
John, I’ll never forgive you, or speak to you
again,”
‘‘ Weel, my lass, I dean’t care aboot ’un ; let ’un
gang on, let ’un gang on.”
It now became Miss Squeers’s turn to aarareea
with Nicholas, and the effect of the double inter-
cession was,~that he and John Browdie shook
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 29
hands across the table with much gravity. Such
was the imposing nature of this ceremonial, that
Miss Squeers shed tears.
““What’s the matter, Fanny ?” said Miss Price.
“‘ Nothing, ’Tilda.” _
‘There never was any danger,’’ said Miss Price,
‘‘ was there, Mr. Nickleby ?”
‘‘ None at all. Absurd.”
‘Say something kind to her, and she ’ll soon
come round. Here! Shall John and I go into the
little kitchen, and come back presently ? ”
“ Not on any account! What on earth should ~
you do that for?”
«Well, you are a one to keep company.”’
‘“What do you mean? I am not a one to keep
company at all. You don’t mean to say that you
think — ”’
“QO no! I think nothing at all. Look at her,
dressed so beautiful, and looking so well, — really
almost handsome. I am ashamed at you.”
“ Myedear girl, what have I got to do with her
dressing beautifully or looking well ? ”
“Come, don’t call me a dear girl! ’? (She smiled
a little, though, for she was pretty, and a coquette
in her small way, and Nicholas was good-looking,
and she supposed him the property of somebody
else, which were all reasons why she should be
gratified to think she had made an impression on
him.) “Come; we’re going to have a game at
cards.” She tripped away and rejoined the big
30 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
Yorkshireman, and they sat down to play specu-
lation.
‘There are only four of us, ’Tilda,” said Miss
Squeers, looking slyly at Nicholas ; ‘‘so we had
better go partners, two against two.”
«What do you say, Mr. Nickleby ? ”’
“ With all the pleasure in life.’’ And quite un-
conscious of his heinous offence, he “ went part-
ners’ with. Miss Price.
‘Mr. Browdie, shall we make a bank against
them ?”’
The Yorkshireman Eseries — apparently quite
overwhelmed by the usher’s impudence, — and
Miss Squeers darted a spiteful look at her friend.
The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand pros-
pered.
«We intend to win everything.”
“Tilda has won something she didn’t expect,
I think ; have n’t you, dear? ”’
“Only a dozen and eight, love.”
‘How dull you are to-night !”’ ‘
‘‘No, indeed. I am in excellent spirits. I was
thinking you seemed out of sorts.”
‘$Me f 0 no!7’
«Your hair ’s coming out of curl, dear.
““ Never aus me; you had better attend to your
partner, miss.’
«Thank you for reminding her. So she had.”
The Yorkshireman flattened his nose once or
twice with his clenched fist, as if to keep his hand
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 31
in, till he had an opportunity of exercising it upon
the nose of some other gentleman; and Miss
Squeers tossed her head with such indignation,
that the gust of wind raised by the multitudinous
curls in motion nearly blew the candle out.
‘‘T never had such luck, really,’’? exclaimed Miss
Price, after another hand or two. ‘It’s all along
of you, Mr. Nickleby, I think. I should like to
have you for a partner always.”’
‘‘T wish you had.”’
“ You’ll have a bad wife, though, if you always
win at cards.”
‘‘ Not if your wish is gratified. I am sure I shall
have a good one in that case.”
To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and
how the corn-factor flattened his nose the while !
‘‘We have all the talking to ourselves, it
seems,’ said Nicholas, looking good-humoredly
round the table, as he took up the cards for a fresh
deal.
“You do it so well, that it would be a pity to
interrupt, would n’t it, Mr. Browdie ? ”’
“Nay, we do it in default of having anybody
else to talk to.”
‘We'll talk to you, you know, if you’ll say any-
thing.” .
“«Thank you, ’Tilda.”’
‘‘Or you can talk to each other, if you don’t
choose to talk to us. John, why don’t you say
something ? ”’
32 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
«Say summat ? ”
‘‘“Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.”’
‘‘Weel, then! what I say’s this, — Dang my
boans and boddy, if I stan’ this ony longer. Do ye
gang whoam wi’ me; and do yon loight an’ toight
young whipster look sharp out for a brokken head,
next time he cums under my hond.”’
« Mercy on us, what’s all this ?”’ .
‘““Cum whoam, tell ’ee, cum whoam!”’
Here Miss Squeers burst into tears; in part from
vexation, and in part from an impotent desire to
lacerate somebody’s countenance with her fair fin-
ger-nails.
‘‘ Why, and here’s Fanny in tears now! What
can be the matter ? ”’
‘‘Q, you don’t know, miss, of course you don’t
know. Pray don’t trouble yourself to inquire,”’
said Miss Squeers, producing that change of coun-
tenance which children call making a face.
‘¢ Well, I’m sure! ”’
‘‘ And who cares whether you are sure or not,
ma’am ? ”’
‘‘ You are monstrous polite, ma’am.”’
‘‘T shall not come to you to take lessons in the
art, ma’am!”
‘QO, you need n’t take the trouble to make your-
self plainer than you are, ma’am, however, because
that’s quite unnecessary.”’
Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and
thanked God that she had n’t got the bold faces
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 33
of some people. Miss Price, in rejoinder, con-
gratulated herself upon not being possessed of the
envious feeling of other people; whereupon Miss
Squeers made some general remark touching the
danger of associating with low persons. In which
Miss Price entirely coincided.
‘Tilda, artful and designing ’Tilda! I wouldn't
have a child named ’Tilda, — not to save it from
its grave!”’
(Here John Browdie, a little nettled, wound ap
the evening by remarking, ‘‘ As to the matther 0’
thot, it ‘ll be time eneaf to think aboot neaming of
it when it cooms.’’)
He and his betrothed were no sooner gone, than
Miss Squeers gave vent to a burst of tears, and la-
mented incoherently. Nicholas stood looking on
for a few seconds, rather doubtful what to do; but
feeling uncertain whether the fit would end in his
being embraced or scratched, and considering that
either infliction would be equally agreeable, he
walked off, while Miss Squeers was moaning in her
pocket-handkerchief.
34 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
CHAP LER Ly.
HE poor creature Smike, since the night
Nicholas had spoken kindly to him in the
school-room, had followed him to and fro, content
only to be near him. He would sit beside him for
hours ; and a word would brighten up his care-
worn face, and call into it a passing gleam even
of happiness.
Upon this poor being, all the spleen and ill-
humor that could not be vented on Nicholas were
bestowed. 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 portion. Squeers was jealous of
the influence his man had so soon acquired in the
school; and the slighted Miss Squeers now hated
Nicholas ; and Mrs. Squeers hated him ; and Smike
paid for all.
One night the poor soul was poring hard over a
book, vainly endeavoring to master some task
which a child of nine years old could have con-
quered with ease, but which to the brain of the
crushed boy of nineteen was a hopeless mystery.
Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“‘T- can’t do it.”’
‘Do not try. aul will do better, poor fellow.
when I am gone.’
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 35
“Gone! Are you going?”
“‘T cannot say. I was speaking more to my own
thoughts than to you. I shall be driven to that
at last!” said Nicholas. ‘‘ The world is before
me, after all.”’
“Ts the world as bad ahd dismal as this
place ?”
‘“‘ Heaven forbid,” replied Nicholas, pursuing the
train of his own thoughts ; ‘‘ its hardest, coarsest
toil is happiness to this.”
‘Should I ever meet you there ?”’
‘“« Yes,” — willing to soothe him.
‘‘No, no! Should I—should I— Say I should
be’sure to find you.”’
‘You would, and I would help you, and not
bring fresh sorrow on you, as I have done here.”
The boy caught both his hands, and uttered a few
broken sounds which were unintelligible. Squeers
entered at the moment, and he shrunk back into his
old corner.
Two days later, the cold, feeble dawn of a Janu-
ary morning was stealing in at the windows of the
common sleeping-room, when Nicholas, raising
himself on his arm, looked among the prostrate
forms in search of one.
“‘ Now, then,” cried Squeers, from the bottom of
the stairs, ‘‘ are you going to sleep all day, up
there —”’
‘¢ We shall be down directly, sir.”’
« Down directly! Ah! you had better be down
3
36 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
directly, or I’ll be down upon some of you in less
time than directly. Where’s that Smike? ”’
Nicholas looked round again.
‘‘ He is not here, sir.’
‘Don’t tell me a lie. He is.”
“He is not. Don’t tell me one.”
Squeers bounced into the dormitory, and, swing-
ing his cane in the air ready for a blow, darted into
the corner where Smike usually lay at night. The
cane descended harmlessly. There was nobody
there.
‘What does this mean? Where have you hid
him ? ”’ .
‘‘T have seen nothing of him since last night.’’
‘Come, you won't save him this way. Where
is he?”
“At the bottom of the nearest pond for anything
I know.”
‘‘ D—n you, what do you mean by that? ”’
- In a fright, Squeers inquired of the boys whether
any one of them knew anything of their missing
schoolmate.
There was a general hum of denial, in the midst
of which one shrill voice was heard to say (as i in-
deed everybody thought) : —
‘‘ Please, sir, I think Smike’s run away, sir.”
‘‘ Ha! who said that ? ”’
Mr. Squeers made a plunge into the crowd, and
caught a very little boy, the perplexed expression
of whose countenance, as he was brought forward,
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 37
seemed to intimate that he was uncertain whether
he was going to be punished or rewarded for his
suggestion. He was not long in doubt.
‘¢- You think he has run away, do you, sir? ”’
‘¢ Yes, please, sir.”’
“‘ And what reason have you to suppose that any
boy would want to run away from this establish.
ment? Eh?’
The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer,
and Mr. Squeers beat him until he rolled out of his
hands. He mercifully allowed him to roll away.
“There! Now, if any other boy thinks Smike
has run away, I shall be glad to have a talk with
him.”
Profound silence.
«‘ Well, Nickleby, you think he has run away, I
suppose ?”’
_ JT think it extremely likely.”’
‘‘ Maybe you know he has run away ? ”
‘“‘T know nothing about it.”
“ He did n’t tell you he was going, I suppose ?”
‘‘He did not. Iam very glad he did not, for i
would then have been my duty to have told you.’
‘‘ Which no doubt you would have been devilish
sorry to do.’’
‘‘T should, indeed.’’
Mrs. Squeers had listéned to this conversation
from the bottom of the stairs ; but now, losing all
patience, she hastily made her way to the scene of
action.
38 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
“‘ What ‘s all this here to-do?” What on earth
are you a talking to him for, Squeery! The cow-
house and stable are locked up, so Smike can’t be
there ; and he’s not down stairs anywhere, for the
girl has looked. He must have gone York way,
and by a public road. He must beg his way, and
he could do that nowheres but on the public road.
Now, if you takes the chaise and goes one road,
and I borrows Swallows’s chaise and goes t’ other,
what with keeping our eyes open, and asking ques-
tions, one or other of us is moral sure to lay hold
of him.’’
The lady’s plan was put in execution without
delay, Nicholas remaining behind, in a tumult of
feeling. Death, from want and exposure, was the
best that could be expected from the prolonged ©
wandering of so helpless a creature through a
country of which he was ignorant. There was lit-
tle, perhaps, to choose between this and a return
to the tender mercies of the school. Nicholas lin-
gered on, in restless anxiety, picturing a thousand
possibilities, until the evening of next day, when
Squeers returned alone.
‘“ No news of the scamp!”
Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely
awake when he heard the wheels of a chaise ap-
proaching the house. It stopped, and the voice of
Mrs. Squeers was heard, ordering a glass of spirits
for somebody, which was in itself a sufficien*
sign that something extraordinary had happensd
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 39
Nicholas hardly dared to look out of window, but
he did so, and the first object that met his eyes was
wretched Smike, bedabbled with mud and rain,
haggard and worn and wild.
‘Lift him out,’ said Squeers. ‘‘ Bring him in,
bring him in!”’
“Take care,” cried Mrs. Squeers. ‘ We tied
his legs under the apron, and made ’em fast to
the chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip
again.””
With hands trembling with delight, Squeers un-
loosened the cord; and Smike, more dead than
alive, was brought in and locked up in a cellar,
until such time as Mr. Squeers should deem it ex-
pedient to operate upon him.
The news that the fugitive had been caught and
brought back ran like wildfire through the hungry
community, and expectation was on tiptoe all the
morning. On tiptoe it remained until the after-
noon, when Squeers, having refreshed himself
with his dinner and an extra libation or so, made
his appearance (accompanied by his amiable part-
ner), with a fearful instrument of flagellation,
strong, supple, wax-ended, and new.
‘Ts every boy here? ”’
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid
to speak ; so Squeers glared along the lines to as-
sure himself.
There was a curious expression in the usher’s
face; but he took his seat, without opening his
-
40 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
lips in reply. Squeers left the room, and shortly
afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar,
—or rather by that fragment of his jacket which
was nearest the place where his collar ought to
have been.
‘‘Now, what have you got to say for yourself ?
‘(Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my
dear ; I’ve hardly got room enough.)”
‘“‘ Spare me, sir! ”’
‘Q, that’s all you ’ve got to say, is it? Yes,
I'll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare
you that.”
One cruel blow had fallen on him, when Nicholas
Nickleby cried, “ Stop !”
‘““ Who cried stop ? ”’
“Tdid. This must not go on.”
‘Must not go on!”
“No! Must not! Shall not! I will prevent it !
You have disregarded all my quiet interference in
this miserable lad’s behalf; you have returned no
answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness
for him, and offered to be responsible that he would
remain quietly here. Don’t blame me for this pub-
lic interference. You have brought it upon your-
self, not I.’’
“Sit down, beggar! ”’
‘‘ Wretch, touch him again at your peril! I will
not stand by, and see it done. My blood is up,
and I have the strength of ten such men as you.
By Heaven! I will not spare you, if you drive me
~
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 41
on! I havea series of personal insults to avenge,
and my indignation is aggravated by the cruelties
practised in this foul den. Have a care; for if you
raise the devil in me, the consequences will fall
heavily upon your head!”
Squeers spat at him, and struck him a blow
across the face. Nicholas instantly sprang upon
him, wrested his weapon from his hand, and, pin-
ning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he
roared for mercy.
He flung him away with all the force-he could
muster, and the violence of his fall precipitated
Mrs. Squeers over an adjacent form; Squeers,
striking his head against the same form in his
descent, lay at his full length on the ground,
stunned and motionless.
Having brought affairs to this happy termination,
and having ascertained, to his satisfaction, that
Squeers was only stunned, and not dead (upon
which point he had had some unpleasant doubts at
first), Nicholas packed up a few clothes in a small
valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose
his progress, marched boldly out by the front door,
and struck into the road. Then such a cheer arose
as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had never echoed
before, and would never respond to again. When
the sound had died away, the school was empty ;
and of the crowd of boys not one remained.
When Nicholas had cooled sufficiently to give
his present circumstances some reflection, they did
42 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
not appear in an encouraging light ; he had only
four shillings and odd pence in his pocket, and was
something more than two hundred and fifty miles
from London.
Lifting up his eyes, he beheld a horseman coming
towards him, discovered to be no other than Mr.
John Browdie, carrying a thick ash stick.
‘“‘T am in no mood for more ncoise and riot,
and yet, do what I will, I shall fave an alterca-
tion with this honest bleckhead, and perhaps a
blow or two from yonder cudgel.’
There appeared reason to expect it, for John
Browdie no sooner saw Nicholas, than he reined
in his horse, and waited until such time as he
should come up.
“ Servant, young genelman.”’
(yours.
‘‘Weel; we ha’ met at last.”
‘Yes. — Come! We parted on no very good
terms the last time we met; it was my fault; but
I had no intention of offending you, and no idea
that I was doing so. I was very sorry for it after-
wards. Will you shake hands ? ”’
‘‘Shake honds! Ah! that I weel! But wa’at
be the matther wi’ thy feace, mun? It be all
brokken loike.”’
“Tt is a cut, —a blow; but I returned it to the
giver, and with good interest.” .
‘Noa, did’ee though? Well deane! I loike ’un
for thot.”’
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 43
‘The fact is, I have been ill-treated.”
‘‘Noa! Dean’t say thot.’
“Yes, I have, by that man Squeers, and I have
beaten him soundly, and am leaving this place in
consequence.”’
‘What!’ cried John Browdie, with such an
ecstatic shout that the horse shied at it. ‘‘ Beat-
ten the schoolmeasther! Ho! ho! ho! Beatten
the schoolmeasther! Who ever heard o’ the loike
o’ that noo! Giv’ us thee hond agean, yoongster.
Beatten the schoolmeasther! Dang it, I loove
thee for ’t.” 3 |
When his mirth had subsided, he inquired what
Nicholas meant to do. On his replying, to go
straight to London, he shook his head, and inquired
if he knew how much the coaches charged to
carry passengers so far?
‘‘No, I do not; but it is of no great consequence
to me, for I intend walking.”
“Gang awa’ to Lunnun afoot! (Stan’ still,
tell’ee, old horse.) Hoo. much cash hast thee .
gotten ?”’
«Not much, but I can make it enough. Where
there ’s a will, there ’s a way, you know.”’
John Browdie pulled out an old purse, and in-
sisted that Nicholas should borrow from him what-
ever he required.
‘“Dean’t be afeard, mun, tak’ eneaf to carry thee
whoam. Thee ’It pay me yan day, a’ warrant.”’
Nicholas would by no means be prevailed upon
44 - NICHOLAS NICKLEBY |
to*borrow more than a sovereign, with which loan
Mr. Browdie was fain to content himself, after many
entreaties that he would accept of more.
Ile observed, with a touch of Yorkshire caution,
that if Nicholas didn’t spend it all, he could put
the surplus by, till he had an opportunity of re-
mitting it carriage free. |
‘Tak’ that bit o’ timber to help thee on wi’,
mun; keep a good heart, and bless thee. Beatten
the schoolmeasther! ’Cod, it’s the best thing
a’ ’ve heerd this twonty year!”
John set spurs to his horse, and went off at a
smart canter. Nicholas watched the horse and
rider until they disappeared over the brow of a
distant hill, and then set forward on his journey.
He did not travel far, that afternoon, for by this
time it was nearly dark ; so he lay, that night, at a
cottage, where beds were let cheap; and, rising
betimes - next morning, made his way before night
to Boroughbridge. There he stumbled on an
empty barn; and in a warm corner stretched his
weary limbs and fell asleep.
When he awoke next morning, he sat up, rubbed
his eyes, and stared at some motionless object in
front of him.
“Strange! It cannot be real; and yet I—I
am awake! Smike!”’
It was Smike, indeed.
‘Why do you kneel to me?”
“To go with you — anywhere — everywhere —
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 45
to the world’s end—to the churchyard. Let me
go with you; O, do let me. You are my home,
my kind friend ; take me with you, pray !”’
He had followed Nicholas, it seemed; had never
lost sight of him all the way ; had watched while
he slept, and when he halted for refreshment ; and
had feared to appear sooner, lest he should be sent
back. .
‘Poor fellow! Your hard fate denies you any
friend but one, and he is nearly as poor and help-
less as yourself.”
‘“May I—may I go with you? Iwill be your
faithful, hard-working servant. I want no clothes;
these will do very well. I only want to be near
you.”
«And you shall. And the world shall deal by
you as it does by me, till one or both of us shall
quit it for a better. Come!”
So he strapped his burden on his shoulders, and,
taking his stick in one hand, extended the other to
his delighted charge. And so they passed out of
the old barn together.
ro
~
met
1 a
1
i -
ele.
TY
bd ,
yi 4 ae z s 2
Wi
|
e
Me
f Hy iy My
| We
i
vad
DOMBEY AND SON.
i
4
ee
ete rege ke Cn:
OF *
Pieiel or DOMBE Y.
BY
Cink Choe DICKENS.
AS CONDENSED BY HIMSELF, FOR HI8
READINGS.
BOSTON:
Poke aN Deo H EPA RD.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1879.
Gav’s Hitt, HicgHAM By RocHESTER, KENT,
Tenth October, 1867.
The edition bearing the imprint of Mrssrs. T1cKNOR AND FIELDs is
the only correct and authorized edition of my READINGS.
~HARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
University Press: Wetcu, BicELow, & Co.,
CAMBRIDGE.
THE STORY OF LITTLE DOMBEY.
FIVE CHAPTERS.
—_e—
i
ICH Mr. Dombey sat in the corner of his wife’s
darkened bedchamber in the great arm-chair
by the bedside, and rich Mr. Dombey’s Son lay
tucked up warm in a little basket, carefully placed
on a low settee 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.
Rich Mr. Dombey was about eight-and-forty
years of age. Rich Mr. Dombey’s Son, about
eight-and-forty minutes. Mr. Dombey was rather
bald, rather red, and rather stern and pompous ;
Mr. Dombey’s Son was very bald, and very red,
and rather crushed and spotty in his general effect,
as yet.
Mr. Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for
event, —the birth of a son, —jingled his heavy
gold watch-chain as he sat in his blue coat and
«bright buttons by the side of the bed, and said : —
‘‘Qur house of business will once again be not
4 LITTLE DOMBEY.
only in name but in fact Dombey and Son; Dom-
bey and Son! He will be christened Paul, of
course. His father’s name, Mrs. Dombey, and his
grandfather’s! J wish his grandfather were alive
this day !’? And again he said, ‘‘ Dom-bey and
Son.” | 3
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. Common abbreviations
took new meanings in his eyes, and had sole refer-
ence to them. A. D. had no concern with anno
Domini, but stood for anno Dombei — and Son.
He had been married ten years, and, until this
present day on which he sat jingling his gold
watch-chain in the great arm-chair by the side of
the bed, had had no issue.
— To speak of. There had been a girl some six
years before, and she, who had stolen into the
chamber unobserved, was now crouching in a
corner whence she could see her mother’s face.
But what was a girl to Dombey and Son !
Mr. Dombey’s cup of satisfaction was so full,
however, that he said: ‘‘ Florence, you may go and
look at your pretty brother, if you like. Don’t
touch him! ”’
Next moment, the sick lady had opened her eyes
and seen the little girl; and the little girl had run
towards her; and, standing on tiptoe, to hide her °
face in her embrace, had clung about her with a
LITTLE DOMBEY. 5
desperate affection very much at variance with her
years. The lady herself seemed to faint.
‘OQ Lord bless me!” said Mr. Dombey, ‘‘I don’t
like the look of this. A very ill-advised and
feverish proceeding having this child here. I had
better ask Doctor if he’ll have the goodness to
step up stairs again’ ; which he did, returning with
the Doctor himself, and closely followed by his sister,
Mrs. Chick, a lady rather past the middle age than
otherwise, but dressed in a very juvenile manner,
who flung her arms round his neck, and said : —
‘(My dear Paul! This last child is quite a Dom-
bey! He’s such a perfect Dombey!”’
‘‘ Well, well! I think he zs like the family. But
what is this they have told me, since the child was
born, about Fanny herself. How is Fanny ?”
‘« My dear Paul, there ’s nothing whatever wrong
with Fanny. Take my word, nothing whatever.
There is exhaustion, certainly, but nothing like
what I underwent myself either with George or
Frederick. An effort is necessary. That’s all.
Ah! if dear Fanny were a Dombey! But I dare
say, although she is not a born Dombey herself,
she ’Il make an effort ; I have no doubt she ’I] make
an effort. Knowing it to be required of her, as a
duty, of course she ’ll make an effort. And that
effort she must be encouraged, and really, if neces-
sary, urged to make. Now, my dear Paul, come
close to her with me.”’
The lady lay immovable upon her bed, clasping
6 LITTLE DOMBEY.
her little daughter to her breast. The girl clung
close about her, with the same intensity as before,
and never raised her head, or moved her soft cheek
from her mother’s face, or looked on those who
stood around, or spoke, or moved, or shed a tear.
There was such a solemn stillness round the
bed, and the Doctor seemed to look on the impas-
sive form with so much compassion and so little
_ hope, that Mrs. Chick was for the moment diverted
from her purpose. But presently summoning cour-
age, and what she called presence of mind, she
sat down by the bedside, and said, in the tone of
one who endeavors to awaken a sleeper, —
‘Panny ! Fanny !”’
There was no sound in answer but the loud tick-
ing of Mr. Dombey’s watch and the Doctor’s watch,
which seemed in the silence to be running a race.
“Fanny, my dear, here’s Mr. Dombey come to
see you. Won’t you speak to him? They want
‘to lay your little boy in bed, —the baby, Fanny,
you know ; you have hardly seen him yet, I think,
—but they can’t till you rouse yourself a little.
Don’t you think it ’s time you roused yourself
a little? Eh?”
No word or sound in answer. Mr. Dombey’s
watch and the Doctor’s watch seemed to be racing
faster.
‘« Now really, Fanny my dear, I shall have to be
quite cross with you if you don’t rouse yourself.
It’s necessary for you to make an effort, and per-
ee
LITTLE DOMBEY. 7
haps a very great and painful effort, which you are
not disposed to make ; but this is a world of effort,
you know, Fanny, and we must never yield when
so much depends uponus. Come! Try! I must
really scold you if you don’t. Fanny! Only look
at me; only open your eyes to show me that you
hear and understand me; will you? Good Heaven,
gentlemen, what is to be done? ”’
The physician, stooping down, whispered in the
little girl’s ear. Not having understood the pur-
port of his whisper, the little creature turned her
deep dark eyes towards him.
The whisper was repeated.
‘Mamma! ”
The little voice, familiar and dearly loved, awak-
ened some show of consciousness, even at that ebb.
For a moment, the closed eyelids trembled, and
the nostril quivered, and the faintest shadow of a
smile was seen.
‘‘Mamma! O dear mamma! O dear mamma!”’
The Doctor gently brushed the scattered ringlets
of the child aside from the face and mouth of the
mother. And thus, clinging fast to that frail spar
within her arms, the mother drifted out upon the
dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the
world
8 LITTLE DOMBEY.
LE:
E must all be weaned. After that sharp
season in Little Dombey’s life had come
and gone, it began to seem as if no vigilance or
care could make him a thriving boy. In his steeple-
chase towards manhood, he found it very rough
riding. Every tooth was a break-neck fence, and
every pimple in the measles a stone wall to him.
He was down in every fit of the whooping-cough.
Some bird of prey got into his throat, instead of
the thrush; and the very chickens, turning fero-
cious, —if they have anything to do with that in-
faut malady to which they lend their name, — wor-
ried him like tiger-cats.
He grew to be nearly five years old. A pretty
little fellow ; but with something wan and wistful
in his small face, that gave occasion to many sig-
nificant shakes of his nurse’s head. She said he
was too old-fashioned.
He was childish and sportive enough at times,
»but he had a strange, weird, 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 represent the children for whom they
have been substituted. At no time did he fall into
LITTLE DOMBEY. y
this mood so surely, as when — his little chair be-
ing carried down into his father’s room —he sat
there with him after dinner, by the fire.
On one of these occasions, when they had both
been perfectly quiet for a long time, and Mr. Dom-
bey only knew that the child was awake by occa-
sionally glancing at his eye, where the bright fire
was sparkling like a jewel, little Paul broke silence
thus : —
‘‘ Papa! what ’s money ?”’
Mr. Dombey was in a difficulty ; for he would
have liked to give him some explanation involving
the terms “ circulating-medium, currency, deprecia-
tion of currency, paper, bullion, rates of exchange,
value of precious metals in the market,’ and so
forth ; but looking down at the little chair, and see-
ing what a long way down it was, he answered: —
‘‘Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas, shil-
lings, halfpence. You know what they are?”
‘“Q yes, I know what they are. I don’t mean
that, papa; I mean, what’s money, after all?”
‘¢ What is money after all!”
‘‘T mean, papa, what can it do?”
“You'll know better by and by, my man.
Money, Paul, can do anything.”
“It isn’t cruel,.is it ?”’
“No, a good thing can’t be cruel.”
“‘ As you are so rich, if money can do anything,
and is n’t cruel, I wonder it did n’t save me my
mamma. It can’t make me strong and quite well,
10 LITTLE DOMBEY.
either. I am so tired sometimes, and my bones
ache so, that I don’t know what to do!”
Mr. Dombey became uneasy about this odd child,
and, in consequence of his uneasiness, resolved to
send him, accompanied by his sister Florence and
a nurse, to board with one Mrs. Pipchin at Brigh-
ton, —an old lady who had acquired an immense
reputation as ‘a great manager ” of children; and
the secret of whose management was, to give them
everything that they did n’t like and nothing that
they did.
Mrs. Pipchin had also founded great fame on be-
ing a widow lady whose husband had broken his
heart in pumping water out of some Peruvian
mines. This was a great recommendation to Mr.
Dombey, for it had a rich ‘sound. Broke his heart
of the Peruvian mines, mused Mr Dombey. Well!
avery respectable way of doing it.
This celebrated Mrs. Pipchin was a marvellous
ill-favored, ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping
figure, with a mottled face, like bad marble, a hook
nose, and a hard gray eye, that looked as if it
might have been hammered at on an anvil. Forty
years at least had elapsed ‘since the Peruvian mines
had been the death of Mr. Pipchin; but his relict
still wore black bombazine. And she was such a
“bitter old lady that one was tempted to believe
there had been some mistake in the application of
the Peruvian machinery, and that all her waters
of gladness and milk of human kindness had beep
pumped out dry, instead of the mines,
a
LITTLE DOMBEY. 1%
The castle of this ogress was in a steep by-street
at Brighton; where the small front gardens had the
unaccountable property of producing nothing but
marigolds, whatever was sown in them ; and where
snails were constantly discovered holding on to the
street doors, and other public places they were not
expected to ornament, with the tenacity of cupping-
glasses. There were two other very small boarders
in the house where Little Dombey (first called so
by Mrs. Pipchin) arrived. These were one Master
Bitherstone, from India, and a certain Miss Pankey.
As to Master Bitherstone, he objected so much to
the Pipchinian system, that before Little Dombey
had been established in the house five minutes he
privately asked that young gentleman if he could
give him any idea of the way back to Bengal. As
to Miss Pankey, she was disabled from offering any
remark by being in solitary confinement for the of-
fence of having sniffed three times in the presence
of visitors. At one o’clock there was dinner, and
then this young person (a mild little blue-eyed
morsel of a child, who was shampooed every morn-
ing, and seemed in danger of being rubbed away
altogether) was led in from captivity by the ogress
herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed be-
fore visitors ever went.to heaven. When this
great truth had been thoroughly impressed upon
her, she was regaled with rice, while all the rest
had cold pork, except Mrs. Pipchin, whose consti-
tution required warm nourishment, and who had
12 LITTLE DOMBEY.
hot mutton-chops, which smelt uncommonly nice.
Also, at tea, that good lady’s constitution demanded
hot toast, while all the rest had bread and butter.
After breakfast next morning Master Bitherstone
read aloud to the rest a pedigree from Genesis (ju-
diciously selected by Mrs. Pipchin), getting over
the names with the ease and clearness of a young
gentleman tumbling up the treadmill. That done,
Miss Pankey was borne away to be shampooed ;
and Master Bitherstone to have something else
done to him with salt water, from which he always
returned very blue and dejected. Then there were
lessons. It being a part of Mrs. Pipchin’s system
not to encourage a child’s mind to develop itself
like a young flower, but to open it by force like an
oyster, the moral of all her lessons was of a vio-
lent and stunning character; the hero—always a
naughty boy — seldom, in the mildest catastrophe,
being finished off by anything less than a lion or a
bear.
At the exemplary Pipchin, Little Dombey would
sit staring in his little arm-chair by the fire, for any
length of time.
Once she asked him, when they were alone, what
he was thinking about.
“ You,”’ said Paul, without the least reserve.
« And what are you thinking about me ?”
«‘T have been thinking you ain’t like my sister.
There ’s nobody like my sister.”’
‘‘Well! there ’s nobody like me, either, per-
haps.”’
LITTLE DOMBEY. 13
“Ain’t there though? I am very glad there’s
nobody like you! ”’
‘Upon my word, sir! And what else are you
thinking about me ?”’
“7 am thinking how old you must be.”’
“You must n’t say such things as that, young
gentleman. That’ll never do.”
“Why not?”’
‘‘ Never you mind, sir. Remember the story of
the little boy that was gored to death by a mad
bull for asking questions.”’
‘‘ Tf the bull was mad, how did he know that the
boy had asked questions? Nobody can go and
whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don’t believe that
story.”’
‘‘ You don’t believe it, sir? ”’
6c No.”
‘“‘ Not if it should happen to have been a tame
bull, you little Infidel ? ”
As Paul had not considered the subject in that
light, and had founded his -conclusions on the
alleged lunacy of the bull, he allowed himself to
be put down for the present. But he sat turning
it over in his mind, with such an obvious intention
of fixing Mrs. Pipchin presently, that even that
hardy old lady deemed it prudent to retreat.
Such was life at Mrs. Pipchin’s; and Mrs. Pip-
chin said, and they all said, that Little Dombe7
(who watched it all from his little arm-chair by the
fire), was an old, old fashioned child.
14 LITTLE DOMBEY.
But as Little Dombey was no stronger at the
expiration of weeks of this life than he had been
on his first arrival, a little carriage was got for him,
in which he could lie at his ease, with an alphabet
and other elementary works of reference, and be
wheeled down to the seaside. Consistent in his
odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad
who was proposed as the drawer of this carriage
and selected instead a weazen, old, crab-faced man,
who was the lad’s grandfather. |
With this notable attendant to pull him along,
and Florence always walking by his side, he went
down to the margin of the ocean every day ; and
there he would sit or lie in his carriage for hours
together, never so distressed as by the company
of children, —his sister Florence alone excepted
always.
‘© Go away if you please,’ he would say to any
child who came to bear him company. ‘‘ Thank
you, but I don’t want you.”
Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him
how he was, perhaps.
“J am very well, I thank you. But you had
better go and play, if you please.”
Then he would turn his head and watch the
child away, and would say to Florence, ® We
don’t want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy.”
He had even a dislike, at such times, to the
company of his nurse, and was well pleased when
she strolled away, as she generally did, to pick up
v
LITTLE DOMBEY. 15
shells and acquaintances. His favorite spot was
quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers ;
and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or
reading to him, or talking to him, and the wind
blowing on his face, and the water coming up
among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing
more. .
‘“‘Floy,” he said one day, ‘‘ where ’s India, where
the friends of that boy Bitherstone live, — the other
boy who stays with us at Mrs. Pipchin’s ?”’
“QO, it’s a long, long distance off.”
“ Weeks off?”
‘Yes, dear. Many weeks’ journey, night and
‘day.”
‘Tf you were in India, Floy, I should — what is
that mamma did? I forget.”
‘‘ Love me? ”
‘“No, no. Don’t I love you now, Floy? What
is it?—Died. If you were in India, I should die,
Floy.”’
She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her
head down on his pillow, caressing him. And so
would she, she said, if he were there. He would
be better soon.
““O, I am a great deal better now! I don’t
mean that. I mean that I should die of being so
sorry and so lonely, Floy!”
Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep,
and slept quietly for a long time. Awaking sud:
denly, he listened, started up, and sat listening.
16 LITTLE’ DOMBEY.
Florence asked him what he thought he heard.
‘T want to know what it says. The sea, Floy,
— what is it that it keeps on saying ? ”’
She told him that it was only the noise of the
rolling waves.
‘“Yes, yes. But I know that they are always
saying something. Always the same thing. What
place is over there?’’ He rose up, looking eager-
ly at the horizon.
She told him that there was another country
opposite, but he said he didn’t mean that; he
meant farther away, — farther away !
Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk,
he would break off, to try to understand what it
was that the waves were always saying ; and would
rise up in his couch to look towards that Inve
region, far away.
LITTLE DOMBEY. 17
LIT
T length Mr. Dombey, one Saturday, when he
came down to Brighton to see Paul, who was
then six years old, resolved to make a change, and
enroll him as a small student under Doctor Blimber.
Whenever a young gentleman was taken in
hand by Doctor Blimber, he might consider himself
sure of a pretty tight squeeze. The Doctor only
undertook the charge of ten young gentlemen, but
he had always ready a supply of learning for a
hundred, and it was at once the business and de-
light of his life to gorge the unhappy ten with it.
In fact, Doctor Blimber’s establishment was a
great hot-house, in which there was a forcing
apparatus incessantly at work. AIl the boys blew
before their time. Mental green-peas were pro-
duced at Christmas, and intellectual asparagus all
the year round. No matter what a young gentle-
man 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 not the right taste
about the premature productions, and they did n’t
keep well. Moreover, one young gentleman, with
a swollen nose and an excessively large head (the
oldest of the ten who had ‘‘ gone through ” cvery-
2
18 LITTLE DOMBEY.
thing), suddenly left off blowing one day, and
remained in the establishment a mere stalk. And
people did say that the Doctor had rather overdone
it with young Toots, and that when he began to
have whiskers he left off having brains.
The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of
black, with strings at his knees, and stockings be-
low 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 managed to shave into
the creases.
His daughter, Miss Blimber, although a slim and
graceful maid, did no soft violence to the gravity
of the Doctor’s house. There was no light non-
sense about Miss Blimber. She kept her hair short
and crisp, and wore spectacles, and she was dry
and sandy with working in the graves of deceased
languages. None of your live languages for Miss
Blimber. They must be dead, —stone dead, —
and then Miss Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul.
Mrs. Blimber, her mamma, was not learned her-
self, but she pretended to be, and that did quite as
well. She said at evening parties, that, if she
could have known Cicero, she thought she could
have died contented.
As to Mr. Feeder, B. A., Doctor Blimber’s assist-
ant, he was a kind of human barrel-organ, with a
little list of tunes at which he was continually
working, over and over again, without any varia-
tion.
LITTLE DOMBEY. 19
To Doctor Blimber’s Paul was taken by his fa-
ther, on an appointed day. The Doctor was sitting
in his portentous study, with a globe at each knee,
books all round him, Homer over the door, and
Minerva on the mantel-shelf. ‘And how do you
do, sir,” he said to Mr. Dombey, “ and how is my
little friend? ’? When the Doctor left off, the
great clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to
take him up, and to go on saying, over and over
again, ‘ How, is, my, lit, tle, friend, how, is, my, lit,
tle, friend.’
‘““Mr. Dombey,” said Doctor Blimber, ‘ you
would wish my little friend to acquire —”’
‘“‘ Everything, if you please, Doctor.”
“ Yes,’’ said the Doctor, who, with his half-shut
eyes, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of inter-
est that might attach to some choice little animal
he was going to stuff, —“ yes, exactly. Ha! We
shall impart a great variety of information to our
little friend, and bring him quickly forward, I dare
say. Permit me. Allow me to present Mrs. Blim-
ber and my daughter Cornelia, who will be asso-
ciated with the domestic life of our young Pilgrim
to Parnassus.”’ .
‘‘ Who is that at the door? O, come in Toots ;
come in. Mr. Dombey, sir. Our head boy, Mr.
Dombey.”’
The Doctor might have called him their head and
shoulders boy, for he was at least that much taller
than any of the rest. He blushed very red at
20 LITTLE DOMBEY.
finding himself among strangers, and chuckled
aloud.
‘‘An addition to our little portico, Toots; Mr.
Dombey’s son.”
Young Toots blushed again ; and finding, from a
solemn silence which prevailed, that he was expect-
ed to say something, said to Paul, with surprising
suddenness, ‘‘ How are you?’’ This he did in a
voice so deep, and a manner so sheepish, that, if a
lamb had roared, it could n’t have been more sur-
prising.
‘Take him round the house, Cornelia,’’ said the
Doctor, when Mr. Dombey was gone, —“ take him
round the house, Cornelia, and familiarize him with
his new sphere. Go with that young lady, Dom-
bey.” So Cornelia took him to the school-room,
where there were eight young gentlemen in va-
rious stages of mental prostration, all very hard at
work, and very grave indeed. Toots, as an old
hand, had a desk to himself in one corner; and a
magnificent man, of immense age, he looked, in
Little Dombey’s young eyes, behind it. He now
had license to pursue his own course of study, and
it was chiefly to write long letters to himself from
persons of distinction, addressed ‘‘ P. Toots, Es-
quire, Brighton, Sussex,’’? and to preserve them
in his desk with great care.
Young Toots said, with heavy good-nature : —
««Sit down, Dombey.”
“Thank you, sir.”
LITTLE DOMBEY. 21
Little Dombey’s endeavoring to hoist himself on
to a very high window-seat, and his slipping down
again, appeared to prepare Toots’s mind for the re-
ception of a discovery.
‘““T say, you know, you ’re a very small chap.”
‘‘ Yes, sir, 1’m small. Thank you, sir.”
For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done
it kindly, too.
‘‘Who’s your tailor?” inquired Toots, after
looking at him for some moments.
‘‘Tt’s a woman that has made my clothes as yet.
My sister’s dress-maker.”’
‘My tailor’s Burgess and Co. Fash’nable. But
very dear.” :
Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he
would have said it was easy to see thal.
‘‘T say, it’s of no consequence, you know, but
your father ’s regularly rich, ain’t he ? ”’
‘‘ Yes, sir. He’s Dombey and Son.’’
‘¢ And which ? ”’
“And Son, sir.’’
Mr: Toots made one or two attempts to fix the
firm in his mind; but, not quite succeeding, said he
would get Paul to mention the name again to-mor-
row morning, as it was rather important. And
indeed he purposed nothing less than writing him-
self a private and confidential letter from Dombey
and Son immediately.
A gong now sounding with great fury, there was
a general move towards the dining-room, where
23 LITTLE DOMBEY.
every young gentleman had a massive silver fork
and a napkin, and all the arrangements were stately
and handsome. In particular, there was a butler
in a blue coat and bright buttons, who gave quite
a winy flavor to the table-beer, he poured it out
30 superbly.
Tea was served in a style no less polite than the
dinner ; and after tea, the young gentlemen, rising
and bowing, withdrew to bed.
There were two sharers of Little Dombey’s bed-
room,—one named Briggs, the other Tozer. In
the confidence of that retreat at night, Briggs said
his head ached ready to split, and that he shorld
wish himself dead if it was n’t for his mother and a
blackbird he had at home. Tozer did n’t say much,
but he sighed a good deal, and told Paul to look
out, for his turn would come to-morrow. After
uttering those prophetic words, he undressed him-
self moodily, and got into bed.
Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed
that he was walking hand in hand with Florence
through beautiful gardens, when he found that it
was a dark, windy morning, with a drizzling rain,
and that the gong was giving dreadful note of
preparation down in the hall. ‘
So he got up directly, and proceeded softly on
his journey down stairs. Ashe passed a door that
stood ajar, a voice from within cried ‘‘Is that
Dombey?”’ On Paul replying, “‘ Yes, ma’am,”
—for he knew the voice to be Miss Blimber’s, —
ee eee ee
LITTLE DOMBEY. 23
Miss Blimber said, ‘‘ Come in, Dombey.’’ And in
he went.
““Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, ‘‘I ’m go-
ing out for a constitutional.”
Paul wondered what that was, and why she
didn’t send the footman out to get it in such un-
favorable weather. But he made no observation
on the subject, his attention being devoted to a
little pile of new books, on which Miss Blimber
appeared to have been recently engaged. :
‘‘These are yours, Dombey. I am going out fora
constitutional ; and while I am gone, that is to say
in the interval between this and breakfast, Dombey,
I wish you to read over what I have marked in
these books, and to tell me if you quite understand
what you have got to learn.”
They comprised a little English, and a deal of
Latin, — names of things, declensions of articles
and substantives, exercises thereon, and rules, —a
trifle of orthography, a glance at ancient history, a
wink or two at modern ditto, a few tables, two or
three weights and measures, and a little general in-
formation. When poor Little Dombey had spelt
out number two, he found he had no idea of num-
ber ont; fragments of which afterwards obtruded
themselves into number three, which slided into
number four, which grafted itself on to number two.
So that it was an open question with him whether
twenty Romuluses made a Remus, or hic hee hoc
was troy weight, or a verb always agreed with an
24 LITTLE DOMBEY.
ancient Briton, or three times four was Taurus a
bull.
‘‘Q Dombey, Dombey!” said Miss Blimber,
when she came back, ‘‘this is very shocking,
you know.’’:
Miss Blimber expressed herself with a gloomy
delight, as if she had expected this result. She
divided his books into tasks on subjects A, B, C,
and D, and he did very well.
It was hard work, resuming his studies soon
after dinner ; and he felt giddy and confused and
drowsy and dull. But all the other young gentle.
men had similar sensations, and were obliged to
resume their studies too. The studies went round
like a mighty wheel, and the young gentlemen
were always stretched upon it.
Such spirits as Little Dombey had he soon lost,
of course. But he retained all that was strange
and old and thoughtful in his character ; and even
became more strange and old and thoughtful. He
loved to be alone, and liked nothing so well as
wandering about the house by himself, or sitting
on the stairs listening to the great clock in the
hall. Ile was intimate with all the paper-hanging
in the house; he saw things that no one else saw
in the patterns; and found out miniature tigers
and lions running up the bedroom walls.
The lonely child lived on, surrounded by this
arabesque-work of his musing fancy, and no one
understood him. Mrs. Blimber thought him “odd,”
LITTLE DOMBEY. 25
and sometimes the servants said that Little Dom-
bey “moped”; but that was all.
Unless young Toots had some idea on the gsub-
ject.
He would say to Little Dombey, fifty times a
day, ‘‘I say —it’s of no consequence, you know
— but — how are you?”
Little Dombey would answer, “ Quite well, sir,
thank you.”
‘‘ Shake hands.”’
Which Little Dombey, of course, would immedi-
ately do. Mr. Toots generally said again, after a
long interval of staring and hard breathing, ‘I
say, —it ’s not of the slightest consequence, you
know, but I should wish to mention it, — how are
you, you know?”’
To which Little Dombey would again reply,
“Quite well, sir, thank you.”
One evening a great purpose seemed to flash on
Mr. Toots. He went off from his desk to look
after Little Dombey, and, finding him at the win-
dow of his little bedroom, blurted out all at once,
as if he were afraid he should forget it: ‘‘ I say—
Dombey— what do you think about?” *
“OQ, I think about a great many things.”’
“Do you, though ? —I don’t, myself.”
“Twas thinking, when you came in, about last
night. It was a beautiful moonlight night. When
I had listened to the water fora long time, I got
up, and looked out at it. There was a boat over
26 LITTLE DOMBEY.
there; the sail like an arm, all silver. It went
away into the distance, and what do you think it
seemed to do as it moved with the waves ? ”’
‘¢ Pitch ¢ ”
‘It seemed to beckon, — seemed to beckon me
to come.”’
This was on a Friday night; it made such a pro-
digious impression on Mr. Toots, that he had it on
his mind as long afterwards as Saturday morning.
And so the solitary child lived on and on, sur-
rounded by the arabesque-work of his musing fan-
cy, and still no one understood him. He grew
fond, now, of a large engraving that hung upon
the staircase, where, in the centre of a group, one
figure that he knew —a figure with a light about its
head, benignant, mild, and merciful—stood point-
ing upward. He watched the waves and clouds
at twilight with his earnest eyes, and breasted the
window of his solitary room when birds flew by,
as if he would have emulated them and soared
away.
—_—
LITTLE DOMBEY. 27
Ges
Vi ) HEN the midsummer vacation approached,
no indecent manifestations of joy were ex-
hibited by the leaden-eyed young gentlemen assem-
bled at Dr. Blimber’s. Any such violent expression
as ‘‘ breaking up ”’ would have been quite inappli-
cable to that polite establishment. The young
gentlemen oozed away semi-annually to their own
homes, but they never broke up.
Mr. Feeder, B. A., however, seemed to think that
he would enjoy the holidays very much. Mr.
Toots projected a life of holidays from that time
forth; for, as he regularly informed Paul every day, -
it was his “last half’”’ at Doctor Blimber’s, and he
was going to begin to come into his property
directly.
Mrs. Blimber was by this time quite sure that
Paul was the oddest child in the world; and the
Doctor did not controvert his wife’s Opinion. But
he said that study would do much ; and he said,
“ Bring him on, Cornelia! Bring him on!”
Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously
as she could; and Paul had had a hard life of it.
But, over and above the getting through his tasks,
he had long had another purpose always present to
him, and to which he still held fast. It was, to be
a gentle, useful, quiet little fellow, always striving
28 LITTLE DOMBEY.
to secure the love and attachment of the rest ; and
thus he was an object of general interest, — a fragile
little plaything that they all liked, and whom no
one would have thought of treating roughly.
It was darkly rumored that even the butler,
regarding him with favor such as that stern man
had never shown to mortal boy, had mingled por-
ter with his table-beer, to make him strong. But
he could n’t change his nature, and so they all
agreed that Little Dombey was ‘‘ old-fashioned.”
Over and above other extensive privileges, he
had free right of entry to Mr. Feeder’s room, from
which apartment he had twice led Mr. Toots into
the open air in a state of faintness, consequent on
an unsuccessful attempt to smoke a very blunt
cigar, one of a bundle which that young gentle-
man had covertly purchased on the shingle from a
most desperate smuggler, who had acknowledged,
in confidence, that two hundred pounds was the
price set upon his head, dead or alive, by the Cus-
tom-House.
But Mr. Feeder’s great possession was a large
green jar of snuff, which Mr. Toots had brought
down as a present, at the close of the last vaca-
tion; and for which he had paid a high price, as
having been the genuine property of the Prince
Regent. Neither Mr. Toots nor Mr. Feeder could
partake of this or any other snuff, even in the most
moderate degree, without being seized with con-
vulsions of sneezing. Nevertheless it was their
LITTLE DOMBEY. 29
great delight to moisten a boxful with cold tea,
stir it up on a piece of parchment with a paper-
knife, and devote themselves to its consumption
then and there. In the course of which cramming
of their noses, they endured Surprising torments
with the constancy of martyrs ; and, drinking table-
beer at intervals, felt all the glories of dissipation.
Going into this room one evening, when the
holidays were very near, Paul found Mr. Feeder
filling up the blanks in some printed letters, while
others were being folded and sealed by Mr. Toots.
Mr. Feeder said, « Aha, Dombey, there you are,
are you? That’s yours.”
‘¢ Mine, sir ?”’
‘“‘ Your invitation, Little Dombey.”’
Paul, looking at it, found that Doctor and Mrs.
Blimber requested the pleasure of Mr. P. Dombey’s
company at an early party on Wednesday Evening,
the Seventeenth Instant; and that the hour was
half past seven o’clock; and that the object was
Quadrilles. He also found that the pleasure of
every young gentleman’s company was requested
by Doctor and Mrs Blimber on the same genteel
occasion.
Mr. Feeder then told him, to his great joy, that
his sister was invited, and that he would be ex-
pected to inform Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, in
superfine small-hand, that Mr. P. Dombey would
be happy to have the honor of waiting on them, in
accordance with their polite invitation.
30 LITTLE DOMBEY.
Little Dombey thanked Mr. Feeder for these
hints, and, pocketing his invitation, sat down on a
stool by the side of Mr. Toots, as usual. But Lit-
tle Dombey’s head, which had long been ailing, and
was sometimes very heavy, felt so uneasy that
night, that he was obliged to support it on his
hand. And yet it drooped so, that by little and
little it sunk on Mr. Toots’s knee, and rested there,
as if it had no care to be ever lifted up again.
That was no reason why he should be deaf; but
he must have been, he thought, for by and by he
heard Mr. Feeder calling in his ear, and gently
shaking him to rouse his attention. And when he
raised his head, quite scared, and looked about him,
he found that Doctor Blimber had come into the
room ; and that the window was open, and that his
forehead was wet with sprinkled water; though
how all this had been done without his knowledge,
was very curious indeed.
It was very kind of Mr. Toots to carry him to
the top of the house so tenderly ; and Paul told
him that it was. But Mr. Toots said he would do
a great deal more than that, if he could, and indeed
he did more as it was; for he helped Paul to un-
dress, and helped him to bed, in the kindest manner
possible, and then sat down by the bedside and
chuckled very much. 4 P
How he melted away, and Mr. Feeder changed
into Mrs. Pipchin, Paul never thought of asking ;
but when he saw Mrs. Pipchin standing at the bot-
LITTLE DOMBEY. 31
tom of the bed, instead of Mr. Feeder, he cried out,
‘‘ Mrs. Pipchin, don’t tell Florence !”’
‘Don’t tell Florence what, my Little Dombey ? ”
“ About my not being well.”’
‘‘No, no.’
‘‘ What do you think I mean to do when I grow
up, Mrs. Pipchin ? ”’
Mrs. Pipchin could n’t guess.
‘‘T mean to put my money all together in one
bank, — never try to get any more, — go away into
the country with my darling Florence, —have a
beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and live there
with her all my life!”
‘‘ Indeed, sir? ”’
‘Yes. That ’s what I mean to do, when I—”’
He stopped, and pondered for a moment.
Mrs. Pipchin’s gray eye scanned his thoughtful |
face.
‘Tf I grow up,” said Paul.
There was a certain calm Apothecary, who at-
tended at the establishment, and somehow he got
into the room and appeared at the bedside. _Lit-
tle Dombey was very chatty with him, and they
parted excellent friends. Lying down again with
his eyes shut, he heard the Apothecary say that
there was a want of vital power (What was that ?
Paul wondered), and great constitutional weak-
ness. That there was no immediate cause for —
what? Paul lost that word. -And that the little
fellow had a fine mind, but was an old-fashioned
boy.
32 LITTLE DOMBEY.
What old fashion could that be, Paul wondered,
that was so visibly expressed in him ?
He lay in bed all that day, but got up on the
next, and went down stairs. Lo and behold, there
was something the matter with the great clock;
and a workman on a pair of steps had taken its
face off, and was poking instruments into the works
by the light of a candle! This was a great event
for Paul, who sat down on the bottom stair, and
watched the operation. |
As the workman said, when he observed Paul,
‘How do you do, sir?’’ Paul got into conversa-
tion with him.
Finding that his new acquaintance was not very
well informed on the subject of the Curfew Bell of
ancient days, Paul gave him an account of that
institution ; and also asked him, as a practical man,
what he thought about King Alfred’s idea of meas-
uring time by the burning of candles. To which
the workman replied, that he thought it would be
the ruin of the clock trade if it was to come up
again. At last the workman put away his tools
and went away; though not before he had whis-
»pered something, on the door-mat, to the footman,
in which there was the phrase “ old-fashioned,” -
for Paul heard it.
What could that old fashion be, that seemed to
make the people sorry! What could it be!
_ And now it was that he began to think it must
surely be old-fashioned to be very thin and light,
LITTLE DOMBEY. 33
and easily tired, and soon disposed to lie down
anywhere and rest; for he could n’t help feeling
that these were more and more his habits every
day.
At last the party-day arrived; and Doctor Blim-
ber said at breakfast, ‘‘ Gentlemen, we will resume
our studies on the twenty-fifth of next month.”
Mr. Toots immediately threw off his allegiance,
and put on aring; and mentioning the Doctor in
casual conversation shortly afterwards, spoke of
him as ‘“‘ Blimber’’?! This act of freedom inspired
the older pupils with admiration ; but the younger
spirits seemed ,to marvel that no beam fell down
and crushed him.
Not the least allusion was made to the ceremo-
nies of the evening, either at breakfast or at dinner ;
but there was a bustle in the house all day, and
Paul made acquaintance with various strange
benches and candlesticks, and met a harp in a
green great-coat standing on the landing outside
the drawing-room door. There was something
queer, too, about Mrs. Blimber’s head at dinner-
time, as if she had screwed her hair up.too tight ;
and though Miss Blimber showed a graceful bunch
of plaited hair on each temple, she seemed to
have her own little curls in paper underneath, and
in a play-bill too; for Paul read ‘‘ Theatre Roy-
al’? over one of her sparkling spectacles, and
‘¢ Brighton ’’ over the other.
There was a grand array of white waistcoats and
3
34 LITTLE DOMBEY.
cravats in the young gentlemen’s bedrooms as
evening approached, and such a smell of singed
hair, that Dr. Blimber sent up the footman with
his compliments, and wished to know if the house
was on fire. But it was only the hair-dresser
curling the young gentlemen, and overheating his
tongs in the ardor of business.
When Paul was dressed he went down into the
drawing-room ; where he found Doctor Blimber
pacing up and down, full dressed, but with a
dignified and unconcerned demeanor, as if he
‘ thought it barely possible that one or two people
might drop in by and by. Shortly afterwards,
Mrs. Blimber appeared, looking lovely, Paul
thought, and attired in such a number of skirts
that it was quite an excursion to walk round her.
Miss Blimber came down soon after her mamma ; a
little squeezed in appearance, but very charming.
Mr. Toots and Mr. Feeder were the next arrivals.
Each of these gentlemen brought his hat in his
hand, as if he lived somewhere else; and when
they were announced by the butler, Doctor Blim-
ber said, ‘Ay, ay, ay! God bless my soul!”’ and
seemed extremely surprised to see them. Mr.
Toots was one blaze of jewelry and buttons; and
he felt the circumstance so strongly, that when he
had shaken hands with the Doctor, and had bowed
to Mrs. Blimber and Miss Blimber, he took Paul
aside, and said, ‘‘ What do you think of this, Dom-
bey ?”
LITTLE DOMBEY. 395
#
But notwithstanding his modest confidence in
himself, Mr. Toots appeared to be involved in a
good deal of uncertainty whether, on the whole, it
was judicious to button the bottom button of his
waistcoat ; and whether, on a calm revision of all
the circumstances, it was best to wear his wrist-
bands turned up or turned down. Observing that
Mr. Feeder’s were turned up, Mr. Toots turned his
up; but the wristbands of the next arrival being
turned down, Mr. Toots turned his down. The dif-
ferences in point of waistcoat buttoning, not only
at the bottom, but at the top too, became so nu-
merous and complicated as the arrivals thickened,
that Mr. Toots was continually fingering that arti-
cle of dress, as if he were performing on some in-
strument.
All the young gentlemen, tightly cravatted,
curled, and pumped, and with their best hats in
their hands, having been at different times an-
nounced and introduced, Mr. Baps, the dancing-
master, came, accompanied by Mrs. Baps, to whom
Mrs. Blimber was extremely kind and condescend-
ing. Mr. Baps*was a very grave gentleman, and
before he had stood under the lamp five minutes he
began to talk to Toots (who had been silently com-
paring pumps with him) about what you were to
do with your raw materials when they came into
your ports in return for your drain of gold. Mr.
Toots, to whom the question seemed perplexing,
suggested, ‘‘Cook ’em.’’ But Mr. Baps did not
appear to think that would do.
36 LITTLE DOMBEY.
2s
Paul now slipped away from the cushioned cor-
ner of a sofa, which had been his post of observa-
tion, and went down stairs into the tea-room to be
ready for Florence. Presently she came, looking
so beautiful in her simple ball-dress, with her fresh
flowers in her hand, that when she knelt down on
the ground to take Paul round the neck and kiss
him, he could hardly make up his mind to let her
go again.
‘But what is the matter, Floy?”’ asked Paul,
almost sure that he saw a tear on her face.
‘“‘ Nothing, darling ; nothing.’’
Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger, —
and it was atear! ‘‘ Why, Floy!”
‘“We’ll go home together, and I’ll nurse you,
love.”
“Nurse me! Floy. Do you think I have grown
old-fashioned ? Because I know they say so, and
I want to know what they mean, Floy.’’
From his nest among the sofa-pillows, where she
came at the end of every dance, he could see and
hear almost everything that passed at the ball.
There was one thing in particular that he observed.
Mr. Feeder, after imbibing several custard-cups of
negus, began to enjoy himself, and told Mr. Toots
that he was going to throw a little spirit into the
thing. After that he not only began to dance as if
he meant dancing and nothing else, but secretly to
stimulate the music to perform wild tunes. Fur-
ther, he became particular in his attentions to the
ee
LITTLE DOMBEY. a7
ladies ; and dancing with Miss Blimber, whispered
to her — whispered to her!— though not so softly
but that Paul heard him say this remarkable po-
etry,
‘Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne’er could injure You! ”
This, Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies,
in succession. Well might Mr. Feeder say to Mr.
Toots, that he was afraid he should be the worse
for it to-morrow !
A buzz at last went round of ‘“ Dombey’s go-
ing!” ‘ Little Dombey’s going!” and there was a
general move after him and Florence down the
staircase and into the hall.
Once, for a last look, he turned, surprised to see
how shining and how bright and numerous the
faces were, and how they seemed like a great dream
full of eyes.
There was much, soon afterwards, — next day,
and after that, — which Paul could only recollect
confusedly. As, why they stayed at Mrs Pipchin’s
days and nights, instead of going home.
But he could remember, when he got to his old
London home and was carried up the stairs, that
there had been the rumbling of a coach for many
hours together, while he lay upon the seat, with
Florence still beside him, and old Mrs. Pipchia sit-
ting opposite. He remembered his old bed too,
when they laid him down in it. But there was
something else, and recent, that still perplexed him.
38 LITTLE DOMBEY.
“T want to speak to Florence, if you please.
‘To Florence by herself, for a moment! ”’
She bent down over him, and the others stood
away.
“Floy, my pet, wasn’t that papa in the hall,
when they brought me from the coach ? ”’ \
‘¢ Yes, dear.”’
‘‘He didn’t cry, and go into his room, Floy, did
he, when he saw me coming in ? ”’
She shook her head, and pressed her lips against
his cheek.
‘“‘T’m very glad he did n’t cry, Floy. I thought
he did. Don’t tell them that I asked.”’
LITTLE DOMBEY. 39
THE LAST.
ITTLE DOMBEY had never risen from his lit-
tle bed. He lay there, listening to the noises
in the street, quite tranquilly ; not caring much
how the time went, but watching it and watching
everything.
When the sunbeams struck into his room through
the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite
wall, like golden water, he knew that evening was
coming on, and that the sky was red and beauti-
ful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom
went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen,
deepen, deepen into night. Then he thought how
the long unseen streets were dotted with lamps,
and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead.
His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the
River, which he knew was flowing through the
great city ; and now he thought how black it was,
and how deep it would look reflecting the hosts of
stars; and, more than all, how steadily it rolled
away to meet the sea.
As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in
the street became so rare that he could hear them
coming, count them as they passed, and lose them
in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the
many-colored ring about the candle, and wait pa-
tiently for day. His only trouble was the swift
40 LITTLE DOMBEY.
and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try
to stop it, —to stem it with his childish hands, or
choke its way with sand ; and when he saw it com-
ing on, résistless, he cried out! Buta word from
Florence, who was always at his side, restored him
to himself; and, leaning his poor head upon her
breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.
When day began to dawn again, he watched for
the sun; and when its cheerful light began to
sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself— pic-
tured! he saw —the high church towers rising up
into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking,
starting into life once more, the river glistening as
it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and the country
bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came
by degrees into the street below ; the servants in
the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in
at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly
how he was. Paul always answered for himself,
‘‘T am better. I am a great deal better, thank you!
Tell papa so!”
By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of
the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people
passing and re-passing, and would fall asleep, or
be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again.
“Why, will it never stop, Floy ?’’ he would some-
times ask her. ‘‘It is bearing me away, I think!”
But she could always soothe and reassure him ;
and it was his daily delight to make her lay her
head down on his pillow, and take some rest.
LITTLE DOMBEY. 41
‘You are always watching me, Floy. Let me
watch you, now!”
They would prop him up with cushions in a cor-
ner of his bed, and there he would recline, the
while she lay beside him, — bending forward often-
times to kiss her, and whispering to those who
were near, that she was tired, and how she had sat
up so many nights beside him,
Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and light,
would gradually decline; and again the golden
water would be dancing on the wall.
The people round him changed unaccountably,
and what had been the Doctor would be his father,
sitting with his head leaning on his hand. This
figure, with its head leaning on its hand, returned
so often, and remained so long, and sat so still
and solemn, never speaking, never being spoken
to, and rarely lifting up its face, that Paul began
to wonder languidly if it were real.
‘‘Floy! What ¢s that ? ”
‘‘ Where, dearest ? ”
‘There! at the bottom of the bed.’’
‘‘ There ’s nothing there, except papa! ”’
The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, com-
ing to the bedside, said : —
‘‘ My own boy! Don’t you know me? ”
Paul looked it in the face. Before he could reach
out both his hands to take it between them and
draw it towards him, the figure turned away quick-
ly from the little bed, and went out at the door.
42 LITTLE DOMBEY.
The next time he observed the figure sitting at
the bottom of the bed, he called to it.
“Don’t be so sorry for me, dear papa. Indeed, I
am quite happy !”’
His father coming and bending down to him, he
held him round the neck, and repeated those words
to him several times, and very earnestly ; and he
never saw his father in his room again at any time,
whether it were day or night, but he called out,
‘Don’t be so sorry for me! Indeed, I am quite
happy!” This was the beginning of his always
saying in the morning that he was a great deal bet-
ter, and that they were to tell his father so.
How many times the golden water danced upon
the wall, how many nights the dark river rolled
towards the sea in spite of him, Paul never sought
to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could
have increased, they were more kind, and he more
grateful, every day ; but whether there were many
days or few, appeared of little moment now to the
gentle boy.
One night he had been dieing of his mother
and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs.
The train of thought suggested to him to inquire
if he had ever seen his mother. For he could not
remember whether they had told him yes or no ;
the river running very fast, and confusing his
mind.
‘“‘ Ploy, did I ever see mamma? ”’
‘No, darling ; why ?’’
ee
1
a
LITTLE DOMBEY. 43
‘* Did I never see any kind face, like a mamma’s,
looking at me when I was a baby, Floy ? ”’
‘“Q yes, dear! ”’
‘‘ Whose, Floy ? ”’
‘* Your old nurse’s. Often.’’
‘‘ And where is my old nurse? Show me that
old nurse, Floy, if you please! ”’
*“* She is not here, darling. She shall come to-
morrow.”’
‘‘ Thank you, Floy
Little Dombey closed his eyes with those words,
and fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was high,
and the broad day was clear and warm. Then he
awoke, —woke mind and body,—and sat upright
in his bed. He saw them now about him. There
was no gray mist before them, as there had been
sometimes in the night. He knew them every one,
and called them by their names.
‘‘ And who is this? Is this my old nurse ?”
asked the child, regarding, with a radiant smile, a
figure coming in.
Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed
those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear
boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child.
No other woman would have stooped down by his
bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to
her lips and breast, as one who had some right to
fondle it. No other woman would have so forgot-
ten everybody there but him and Floy, and been
s0 full of tenderness and pity.
1
44 LITTLE DOMBEY.
‘‘Floy! this is a kind, good face! Iam glad to
see it again. Don’t go away, old nurse. Stay
here! Good by!”
‘““Good by, my child?’’. cried Mrs. Pipchin,
hurrying to his bed’s head. ‘Not good by?”
‘Ah, yes! Good by !— Where is papa? ”’
His father’s breath was on his cheek before
the words had parted from his lips. The feeble
hand waved in the air, as if it cried ‘‘ Good by !”’
again.
‘Now lay me down; and, Floy, come close to
me, and let me see you.”
Sister and brother wound their arms around each
other, and the golden light came streaming in, and
fell upon them, locked together.
‘‘How fast the river runs, between its green
banks and the rushes, Floy! But, it’s very near
the sea now. I hear the waves! They always said
so!”
Presently he told her that the motion of the
boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest.
Now the boat was out at sea. And now there
was a shore before him. Who stood on the
bank ! —
He put his hands together, as he had been used
to do, at his prayers. He did not remove his arms
to do it, but they saw him fold them so, behind his
sister’s neck.
“ Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the
face! But tell them that the picture on the stairs
LITTLE. DOMBEY. 45
at school is not Divine enough. The light about
the head is shining on me as I go!”
The golden ripple on the wall came back again,
and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old,
fashion! The fashion that came in with our first
garments, and will last unchanged until our race
has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled
up like a scroll. The old, old fashion, — Death!
O, thank Gop, all who see it, for that older fash-
ion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, Angels
of young children, with regards not quite estranged,
when the swift river bears us to the ocean!
sue
eS
Se
>»
‘
~
“gmt 7 J ;
| ;
ar
Ges ’
ay ‘
ee,
ye a |
a
7 | |
| | a
oer
oa “ .
aes | |
> |
ame Le
etsy
* 4 |
7
i
.
2
:
, 3 | |
:
/
5
» Ls |
* {
| :
‘ ‘ |
\ 5 z
UV PLELLEE LG
5 KANE Ze
GED
ET
MR. BOB SAWYER AND MR. BEN ALLEN.
Mk. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
EY
CHARLES DICKENS,
48 CONDENSED BY HIMSELF, FOB HIS
KEADINGS.
BOSTON:
eA N DY SHEPARD,
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1879.
Gav’s Hitt, HicHAm sy RocHEsTER, KENT,
Tenth October, 1867.
The edition bearing the imprint of Mxzssrs. T1cKNoR AND Fie.ps is
tle only correct and authorized edition of my READINGS.
CHARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. '
University Press: Wetcu, Bicztow, & Co.,
CAMBRIDGE.
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
—o——.
HERE is a repose about Lant Street, in the
borough of Southwark in_ the county of Sur-
rey, which sheds a gentle melancholy upon the soul.
A house in Lant Street would not come within
the denomination of a first-rate residence, in the
strict acceptation of the term ; but if a man wished
to abstract himself from the world, — to remove
himself from the reach of temptation, — to place
himself beyond the possibility of any inducement
to look out of window, —he should by all means
go to Lant Street.
In this happy retreat are colonized a few clear-
starchers, a sprinkling of journeymen bookbind-
ers, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent
Court, several small housekeepers who are em-
ployed in the Docks, a handful of milliners, and a
seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the
inhabitants either direct their energies to the let-
ting of furnished apartments, or devote themselves
to the healthful pursuit of mangling. The chief
features in the still life of the street are green
4 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-
handles ; the principal specimens of animated na-
ture are the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the
baked-potato man. The population is migratory,
usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day,
and generally by night. Her Majesty’s revenues
are seldom collected in this happy valley; the
receipt of rent is dubious; and the water commu-
nication is frequently cut off.
Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire,
in his first-floor front, early on the evening for
which he had invited Mr. Pickwick to a friendly
party ; and his chum Mr. Ben Allen embellished
the other side. The preparations for the recep-
tion of visitors appeared to be completed. The
umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into the
little corner outside the back-parlor door; the
bonnet and shawl of the landlady’s servant had.
been removed from the banisters; there were
not more than two pairs of pattens on the street-
door mat, and a kitchen candle, with a long snuff,
burnt cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase
window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased
the spirits, and had returned home in attend-
ance on the bearer, to preclude the possibility
of their being absconded with or delivered at the
wrong house. The bottles were ready in the bed- .
room; a little table had been got from the par.
lor to play at cards on ; and the glasses of the es-
tablishment, together with those which had been
a gamma Ve
ee
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY. 5
borrowed for the occasion from the public-house,
were all drawn up in a tray on the floor of the
landing outside the door.
Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature
of these arrangements, there was a cloud on the
countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as he sat by the
fire, and there was a sympathizing expression, too,
in the features of Mr. Ben Allen, and melancholy
in his voice, as he said, ‘“ Well, it is unlucky
that your landlady Mrs. Raddle should have taken
it in her head to turn sour, just on this occasion.
She might at least have waited till to-morrow.”
“‘That’s her malevolence, that’s her malevo-
lence. She says that, if I can afford to give a
party, I ought to be able to afford to pay her
confounded ‘ little bill.’ ”’
‘How long has it been running?” A bill, by
the by, is the most extraordinary locomotive engine
that the genius of man ever produced. It would
keep on running during the longest lifetime, with-
out ever once stopping of its own accord.
‘‘ Only a quarter, and a month or so.”’
Ben Allen coughed, and directed a searching
look between the two top bars of the stove.
“It “ll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes
it into her head to let out, when those fellows are
heve, won’t it?”
‘‘ Hormble, horrible.”’
Here a low tap was heard at the room door,
aud Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively at his
6 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon
a dirty slipshod girl, in black cotton stockings,
thrust in her head, and said, ‘“‘ Please, Mister
Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.”
Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return an an-
swer, this young person suddenly disappeared with
a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent
pull behind. This mysterious exit was no sooner
accomplished, than there was another tap at the
door.
Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a
look of abject apprehension, and once more cried,
** Come in.”
The permission was not at all necessary, for, be-
fore Mr. Bob Sawyer had uttered the words, a lit-
tle fierce woman bounced into the room, all in a
tremble with passion, and pale with rage.
“Now, Mr. Sawyer, if you'll have the kind-
ness to settle that little bill of mine I’ll thank you,
because I’ve got my rent to pay this afternoon,
and my landlord ’s a waiting below now.” Here
the little woman rubbed her hands, and looked
steadily over Mr. Bob Sawyer’s head at the wall
behind him.
‘‘T am very sorry to put you to any inconven-
fence, Mrs. Raddle, but —”
‘‘Q, it isn’t any inconvenience. I did n’t want
it particular before to-day ; leastways, as it has
to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for
you to keep it as me. You promised me this
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY. 7
afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman as
has ever lived here has kept his word, sir, as
of course anybody as calls himself a gentleman
do.” Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her lips,
rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall
more steadily than ever.
‘‘T am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle, but the fact
is, that I have been disappointed in the City to-
day.” — Extraordinary place that city. Aston-
ishing number of men always getting disappoint-
ed there.
‘‘ Well, Mr. Sawyer, and what is that to me,
Biers
‘“‘T—JI—have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,” said
Bob, blinking this last question, ‘‘ that before the
middle of next week we shall be able to set our-
selves quite square, and go on, on a better system,
afterwards.”
This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bus-
tled up to the apartment of the unlucky Bob, so
bent upon going into a passion, that, in all prob-
ability, payment would have rather disappointed
her. She was in excellent order for a little relaxa-
tion of the kind, having just exchanged a few in-
troductory compliments with Mr. Raddle in the
front kitchen.
“Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,” elevating her
voice for the information of the neighbors, — ‘do
you suppose that I’m a going day after day to let
a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of pay-
8 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
ing his rent, nor even the very money laid out for
the fresh butter and lump sugar that’s bought for
his breakfast, nor the very milk that’s took in at
the street door? Do you suppose as a hard-work-
ing and industrious woman which has lived in this
street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and
nine year and three quarter in this very house) has
nothing else to do but to work herself to death
after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that are always
smoking and drinking and lounging, when they
ought to be glad to turn their hands to anything
that would help ’em to pay their bills ? ”’
‘“My good soul,” interposed Mr. Benjamin Al-
len.
‘‘ Have the goodness to keep your observashuns
to yourself, sir, I beg,’’ suddenly arresting the
rapid torrent of her speech, and addressing the
third party with impressive slowness and solem-
nity. ‘‘I am not aweer, sir, that you have any
right to address your conversation to me. I don’t
think I let these apartments to you, sir.”’
‘‘No, you certainly did not.’’
‘‘Very good, sir. Then p’r’aps, sir, as a med-
ical studient, you ’Il confine yourself to breaking
the arms and legs of the poor people in the hospi-
tals, and will keep yourself fo yourself, sir, or there
may be some persons here as will make you, sir.’’
‘But you are such an unreasonable woman,”’
‘“‘T beg your parding, young man; but will you
have the goodness to call me that again, sir?”
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY. 9
‘‘T did n’t make use of the word in any invidious
sense, ma’am.”’
“‘T beg your parding, young man; but who do
. you calla woman? Did you make that remark to
me, sir? ”’
‘‘ Why, bless my heart! ”’
“Tid you apply that name to me, I ask of you,
sir ?’? — with intense ferocity, and throwing the
door wide open.
“Why, of course I did.”’
‘‘ Yes, of course you did,”’ backing gradually to
the door, and raising her voice, for the special be-
hoof of Mr. Raddle in the kitchen, —‘‘ yes, of
course you did! And everybody knows that they
may safely insult me in my own ouse while my
husband sits sleeping down stairs, and taking no
more notice than if I was a dog in the streets. He
ought to be ashamed of himself (sob) to allow his
wife to be treated in this way by a parcel of young
cutters and carvers of live people’s bodies, that
disgraces the lodgings (another sob), and leaving
her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base, faint-
hearted, timorous wretch, that’s afraid to come
up stairs and face the ruffinly creatures — that ’s
afraid—that’s afraid to come!’’ Mrs. Raddle
paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt
had roused her better half; and, finding that it had
not been successful, proceeded to descend the
stairs with sobs innumerable, when there came a
loud double-knock at the street door. Hereupon
10 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
she burst into a fit of weeping, which was pro- ~
longed until the knock had been repeated six times,
when, in an uncontrollable burst of mental agony,
she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared
into the back parlor. ,
‘‘Does Mr. Sawyer live here?” said Mr. Pick-
wick, when the door was opened.
‘Yes, first floor. It’s the door straight afore
you, when you gets to the top of the stairs.’
Having given this instruction, the handmaid, who
had been brought up among the aboriginal inhab-
itants of Southwark, disappeared, with the candle
in her hand, down the kitchen stairs.
Mr. Pickwick and his two friends stumbled up
stairs, where they were received by the wretched
Bob, who had been afraid to zo down, lest he
should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.
‘‘How are you? Glad to see you, —take care
of the glasses.’’ This caution was addressed to
Mr. Pickwick, who had put his foot in the tray.
‘Dear me, I beg your pardon.”
‘Don’t mention it, —don’t mention it. I ’m
rather confined for room here, but you must put
up with all that when you come to see a young
bachelor. Walk in. You ’ve seen Mr. Ben Allen
before, I think?’’? Mr. Pickwick shook hands
with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his friends followed
his example. They had scarcely taken their seats
when there was another double-knock.
‘“‘T hope that’s Jack Hopkins! Hush. Yes, it
is. Come up, Jack; come Opes
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY. 11
A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and
J ck Hopkins presented himself.
‘You ’re late, Jack ?”’
‘‘ Been detained at Bartholomew’s.”’
“ Anything new?”
‘No, nothing particular. Rather a good acci-
dent brought into the casualty ward.”
‘“‘What was that, sir? ”’
“ Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs’
window ; but it ’s a very fair case, very fair case
indeed.”’
‘‘Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way
to recover ?”’ :
‘“No; no, I should rather say he would n’t.
There must be a splendid operation though, to-
morrow, — magnificent sight, if Slasher does it.”
“You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator ? ”
‘‘Best alive. Took a boy’s leg out of the socket
last week — boy ate five apples and a gingerbread
cake — exactly two minutes after it was all over,
boy said he would n’t lie there to be made game
of, and he ’d tell his mother if they did n’t begin.”
‘‘ Dear me! ”’
“Pooh! That’s nothing; is it, Bob?”’
“ Nothing at all.”
‘« By the by, Bob,”’ said Hopkins, with a scarce-
ly perceptible glance at Mr. Pickwick’s attentive
face, ‘‘ we had a curious accident last night. A
child was brought in who had swallowed a neck-
lace.’’.
12 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
‘¢ Swallowed what, sir? ”’
‘“A necklace; not all at once, you know, that
would be too much—yow could n’t swallow that,
if the child did —eh, Mr. Pickwick, ha! ha! No,
the way was this. Child’s parents, poor people,
lived in a court. Child’s eldest sister bought a
necklace, — common necklace, large black wooden
beads. Child, being fond of toys, cribbed neck-
lace, hid necklace, played with necklace, cut string
of necklace, and swallowed a bead. Child thought
it capital fun, went back next day and swallowed
another bead.”’
“Bless my heart, what a dreadful thing! I beg
your pardon, sir. Go on.”
‘““Next day, child swallowed two beads: day
after that, treated himself to three beads ; so on,
till in a week’s time he had got through the neck-
lace, — five-and-twenty beads. Sister, industrious
girl, seldom treated herself to bit of finery, cried
eyes out at loss of necklace; looked high and low
for necklace ; but, I need n’t say, did n’t find neck-
lace. Few days afterwards, family at dinner, —
baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes; child
was n’t hungry, playing about the room, when
family suddenly heard devil of a noise, like small
hail-storm. ‘Don’t do that, my boy,’ said father.
‘T ain’t a doin’ nothing,’ said child. ‘ Well, don’t
do it again,’ said father. Short silence, and then
noise worse than ever. ‘If you don’t mind what
I say, my boy,’ said father, ‘ you ’ll find yourself
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY. 15
in bed, in something less than a pig’s whisper.’
Gave child a shake to make him obedient, and
such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard be-*
fore. ‘Why, damme, it’s in the child!’ said fa-
ther; ‘he’s got the croup in the wrong place!’
‘No, I have n’t, father,’ said child, beginving to
cry; ‘it ’s the necklace; I swallowed it, father.’
Father caught child up, and ran with him to hos-
pital; beads in boy’s stomach rattling all the
way with the jolting; and people looking up in
the air, and down in the cellars, to see where
unusual sound came from. He ’s in the hospi-
tal now, and makes such a devil of noise when he
walks about, that they ’re obliged to muffle him
in a watchman’s coat, for fear he should wake the
patients! ”’
Here another knock at the door announced the
rest of the company, five in number, among whom
there was, as presently appeared, a sentimental
young gentleman with a very nice sense of honor.
The little table was wheeled out: the bottles were
brought in, and the succeeding three hours were
devoted to a round game at sixpence a dozen.
When the last deal had been declared, and the
profit-and-loss account of fish and sixpences ad-
justed to the satisfaction of all parties, Mr. Bob
Sawyer rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed
themselves into corners while it was getting
ready.
It was not so easily got ready as some people
14 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
may imagine. First of all, it was necessary to
awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her
face on the kitchen table ; this took time, and, even
when she did answer the bell, another quarter of
an hour was consumed in fruitless endeavors to
impart to her a distant glimmering of reason. The
man to whom the order for the oysters had been
sent had not been told to open them ; it is a very
difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife
or a two-pronged fork, and very little was done in
this way. Very little of the beef was done either ;
and the ham (which was also from the German-
sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar
predicament. However, there was plenty of porter
in a tin can; and the cheese went a great way,
for it was very strong.
After supper more bottles were put upon the
table, together with a paper of cigars. Then there
was an awful pause; and this awful pause was
occasioned by an embarrassing occurrence.
The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses.
The establishment boasted four ; which is not men-
tioned to its disparagement, for there never was a
lodging-house yet that was not short of glasses.
The establishment’s glasses were little thin, feeble
tumblers; and those which had been borrowed
from the public-house were great, dropsical, bloat-
ed articles, each supported on a huge gouty
leg. This would have been in itself sufficient
to have possessed the company with the real state
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY. 15
of affairs; even if the young person of all work
had not prevented the possibility of any miscon-
ception arising in the mind of any gentleman upon
the subject, by forcibly dragging every man’s glass
away long before he had finished his beer, and
audibly stating, despite the winks of Mr. Bob
Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed down stairs,
and washed forthwith.
It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good.
The prim man in the cloth boots, who had been
unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke during
the whole time the round game lasted, saw his op-
portunity, and seized it. The instant the glasses
disappeared, he commenced a long story ‘‘ about a
great public character, whose name I have forgot-
ten, making a particularly happy reply to another
eminent and illustrious individual whom I have
never been able to identify.’”?’ He enlarged with
great minuteness upon divers collateral circum-
stances, distantly connected with the anecdote in
hand, but said, ‘‘ For the life of me I cannot recol-
lect at this precise moment what the anecdote is,
although I have been in the habit of telling the
story with creat applause for the last ten years.
Dear me, it is a very extraordinary circumstance.”’
“‘T am sorry you have forgotten it,’ said Mr.
Bob Sawyer, glancing eagerly at the door, as he
thought he heard the noise of glasses jingling ;
‘very sorry.”
‘« So am I, because I know it would have afforded
16 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
so much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I
shall manage to recollect it, in the course of half
an hour or so.” ?
The prim man arrived at this point just ‘as the
glasses came back, when Mr. Bob Sawyer, who
had been absorbed in attention, said he should very
much like to hear the end of it, for, so far as it
went, it was, without exception, the very best
story he had ever heard.
The sight of the tumblers restored Bob to a
degree of equanimity he had not possessed since
his interview with his landlady. His face bright-
ened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.
“Now, Betsey,” dispersing the tumultuous lit-
tle mob of glasses the girl had collected in the
centre of the table, — ‘now, Betsey, the warm
water. Be brisk, there ’s a good girl.”
‘““ You can’t have no warm water.”’
‘‘ No warm water!”
“No; Missis Raddle said you warn’t .o have
none.”
“Bring up the warm water instantly, — in-
stantly ! ”
‘“No, I can’t. Missis Raddle raked out the
kitchen fire afore she went to bed, and locked up
the kittle.’’
‘‘ Never mind, —never mind. Pray don’t disturb
yourself about such a trifle,”? said Mr. Pickwick,
observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer’s passions as
depicted in his countenance ; “cold water will do
very well.”
;
{
1
‘
i
MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY. 17
‘“« My landlady is subject to some slight attacks
of mental derangement. I fear I must give her
warning.”’
oN, Om t.”?
“J fear I must. Yes, I’ll pay her what I owe
her, and give her warning to-morrow morn-
ing.’ Poor fellow! how devoutly he wished he
could!
Mr. Bob Sawyer’s attempts to rally under this
last blow communicated a dispiriting influence to
the company, the greater part of whom, with the
view of raising their spirits, attached themselves
with extra cordiality to the cold brandy and water.
The first effects of these libations were displayed
in an outbreak of hostilities between the youth
with the nice sense of honor and Mr. Hopkins.
At last the youth with the nice sense of honor felt
it necessary to come to an understanding on the
matter; when the following clear understanding
took place.
‘‘ Sawyer.”
‘‘ Well, Noddy.”
‘“‘T should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any
unpleasantness at any friend’s table, and much less
at yours, Sawyer, — very; but I must take this
opportunity of informing Mr. Hopkins that he is
no gentleman.”’
‘““And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create
any disturbance in the street in which you reside;
but I’m afraid I shall be under the necessity of
9 7
18 MR. BOB SAWYER’S PARTY.
alarming the neighbors by pitching the person who
has just spoken out 0’ window.’’
‘‘T should like to see you do it, sir.”’
‘‘ You shall feel me do it in half a minute, sir.”’
‘TT request that you ’ll favor me with your card,
gir % 2)
‘JT ’ll do nothing of the kind, sir.”’
“Why not, sir? ”’
‘‘ Because you ’ll stick it up over your chimney-
piece, and delude your visitors into the false belief
that a gentleman has been to see you, sir.’’
‘‘ Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the
morning.”’ .
‘Sir, I’m very much obliged to you for the
caution, and I ’ll leave particular directions with
the servant to lock up the spoons.’’
At this point the remainder of the guests inter-
posed, and remonstrated with both parties on the
impropriety of their conduct. 7.
§ A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley. He
answered to both names. It was all the same to
him. ;
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the
grindstone, was Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching,
grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sin-
ner! External heat and cold had little influence on
him. No warmth could warm, no cold could chill
him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he,
no falling snow was more intent upon its pur-
pose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul
weather didn’t know where to have him. The
heaviest rain and snow and hail and sleet could
boast of the advantage over him in only one re-
spect, — they often ‘‘came down”’ bane
and Scrooge never did.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say,
with gladsome looks, ‘‘My dear Scrooge, how
are you? When will you come to see me?”
No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no
children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or
woman ever once in all his life inquired the way
to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Hven the
blindmen’s dogs appeared to know him; and when
they saw him coming on, would tug their owners
into doorways and up courts; and.then would
wag their tails as though they said, ‘‘ No eye at all
is better than an evil eye, dark master!”
But what did Scrooge care! It was the very.
thing be liked. To edge his way along the
~*~
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. §
crowded paths of life, warning all human sym-
pathy to keep its distance, was what the kno wing
ones call “nuts” to Scrooge.
Ouce upon a time —of all the good days ir the
year, upon a Christmas eve — old Scrooge sat
busy in his counting-house. .It was cold, bleak,
biting, fogey weather; and the city clocks had
ouly just gone three, but it was quite dark al-
ready.
The door of Scrooge’s counting-house was open,
that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who,
in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was
copying letters. Scrooge hada very small fire, but
the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it
looked like one coal. But he could n’t replenish
it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room ;
and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel
the master predicted that it would be necessary
for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on
his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at
the candle ; in which effort, not being a man of a
strong imagination, he failed.
‘““A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!”
cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of
Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly
that this was the first intimation Scrooge had ot
his approach.
“Bah!” said Scrooge ; “humbug! ”
‘Christmas a humbug, uncle! You don’t mean
that, I am sure? ”’
6 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
“Tdo. Out upon merry Christmas! What’s
Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills
without money ; a time for finding yourself a year
older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing
your books and having every item in ’em through
a round dozen of months presented dead against
you? If I had my will, every idiot who goes
about with ‘ Merry Christmas’ on his lips should
be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a
stake of holly through his heart. He should!”
** Uncle 1’?
‘‘Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way,
and let me keep it in mine.”’
“Keep it! But you don’t keep it.”
“‘Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may
it do you! Much good it has ever done you!”
“There are many things from which I might
have derived good, by which I have not profited,
I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I am
sure I have always thought of Christmas time,
when it has come round, —apart from the venera-
tion due to its sacred origin, if anything belonging
to it can be apart from that,—as a good time; a
kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the
only time I know of, in the long calendar of the
year, when men and women seem by one consent
to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think
of people below them as if they really were fellow:
travellers to the grave, and not another race of
creatures baund on other journeys.- And there:
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 7
fore, uncle, ‘hough it has never put a scrap of gold |
or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done
me good, and will do me good; and I say, God
bless it!”’
The clerk in the tank bat triage applauded.
‘‘Let me hear another sound from you,’ said
Scrooge, ‘‘and you’ll keep your Christmas by
losing your situation! You’re quite a powerful
speaker, sir,’’? he added, turning to his nephew.
‘“‘T wonder you don’t go into Parliament.’’
“Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us
to-morrow.”’
Scrooge said that he would see him—yes, in-
deed he did. He went the whole length of the
expression, and said that he would see him in
that extremity first. u
“But why?” cried Scrooge’ Brighten “Whyf??
““Why did you get married? ”’
‘‘ Because I fell in love.”
‘“‘ Because you fell in love!’’ growled Scrooge,
as if that were the only one thing in the world
more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. ‘‘ Good
afternoon! ”
‘‘Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me be:
fore that happened. Why give it as a reason for
not coming now?”
‘Good afternoon ”’
‘“‘T want nothing from you; I ask nothing of
you ; why cannot we be friends ? ”’
‘‘G@cod afternoon.’’
8 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. .
‘‘T am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so
resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to
which I have been a party. But I have made the
trial in homage to Christmas, and I’ll keep my
Christmas humor to the last. So A Merry Christ-
mas, uncle!’’
‘Good afternoon !”’
‘‘ And A Happy New-Year! ”
“Good afternoon ! ”
His nephew left the room without an an-
gry word, notwithstanding. The clerk, in letting
Scrooge’s nephew out, had let two other people in.
They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold,
and now stood, with their hats off, in Scrooge’s
office. They had books and papers in their hands,
and bowed to him.
‘‘ Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe,’ said one
of the gentlemen, referring to his list. ‘‘ Have I
the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge, or Mr.
Marley?’’
‘‘ Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years.
He died seven years ago, this very night.’’
‘‘ At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,”’
said the gentleman, taking up a pen, ‘‘it is more
than usually desirable that we should make some —
slight provision for the poor and destitute, who
suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousand¢
are in want of common necessaries ; hundreds of
thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.’’
“‘ Are there no prisons ? ”’
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 9
‘‘Plenty of prisons. But under the impressivn
that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind
or body to the unoffending multitude, a few of us
are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor —
some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We
choose this time, because it is a time, of all others,
when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices, .
What shall I put you down for? ”
‘‘ Nothing ! ”
‘‘ You wish to be anonymous ? ”
‘“‘T wish to be left alone. Since you ask me
_ what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t
make merry myself at Christmas, and I can’t afford
to make idle people merry. I help to support the
prisons and the workhouses,—they cost enough,
—and those who are badly off must go there.”’
‘‘ Many can’t go there; and many would rather
die.”’
‘‘Tf they would rather die, they had better do it,
and decrease the surplus population.”
At length the hour of shutting up the counting
house arrived. With an ill-will Scrooge, dismount-
ing from his stool, tacitly admitted the fact to the
expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed
his candle out, and put on his hat.
«© You ’ll want all day to-morrow, I suppose? ”’
‘If quite convenient, sir.”’
‘It’s not convenient, and it’s not fair. If I
was to stop half a crown forit, you’d think yourself
mightily ill-used, Ill be bound?”
1*
10 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
‘« Yes, sir.”
“And yet you don’t think me ill-used, when I
pay a day’s wages for no work.”
‘It’s only once a year, sir.”
‘A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket
every twenty-fifth of December! But I suppose
you must have the whole day. Be here all the
earlier next morning.”’
The clerk promised that he would ; and Scrooge
walked out with a growl. The office was closed in
a twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends of
his white comforter dangling below his waist (for
he boasted no great-coat), went down a slide, at
the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor
of its being Christmas eve, and then ran home as
hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman’s-buff,
Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual
melancholy tavern ; and having read all the news-
papers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with
his banker’s book, went home to bed. He lived in
chambers which had once belonged to his deceased
partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a
lowering pile of building up a yard. The building
was old enough now, and dreary enough; for no-
body lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being
all let out as offices.
Now it is a fact, that there was nothing at all
particular about the knocker on the door of this
house, except that it was very large; also, that
Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during hig
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 1]
whole residence in that place; also, that Scrouge .
had as little of what is called fancy about him as
any man in the city of London. And yet Scrooge,
having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the
knocker, without its undergoing any intermedi-
ate process of change, not a knocker, but Marley’s
face.
Marley’s face, with a dismal light about it, like
a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or
ferocious, but it looked at Scrooge as Marley used
to look, — with ghostly spectacless turned up upon
its ghostly forehead.
As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon,
it was a knocker again. He said, ‘“‘ Pooh, pooh!”
and closed the door with a bang.
The sound resounded through the house like
thunder. Every room above, and every cask in
the wine-merchant’s ‘cellars below, appeared to
have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge
was not a man to be frightened by echoes. He
fastened the door, and walked across the hall, and
up the stairs. Slowly too, trimming his candle as
he went.
Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for its
being very dark. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge
liked it. But before he shut his heavy door, he
walked through his rooms to see that all was right.
He had just enough recollection of the face to de-
sire to do that. ,
Sitting-room bedroom, lumber-room, all as they
12 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
should be. Nobody under the table, nobody un:
der the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon
and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel
(Scrooge had a cold in his head) upon the hob.
Nobody under the bed ; nobody in the closet ; no-
body in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up
in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lum-
ber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old shoes, twa
fish-baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a
poker. |
Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked
himself in ; double-locked himself in, which was not.
his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he
took off his cravat, put on his dressing-gown and
slippers and his nightcap, and sat down before the
very low fire to take his gruel.
As he threw his head back in the chair, his
glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell,
that hung in the room, and communicated, for some
purpose now forgotten, with a chamber in the
highest story of the building. It was with great
astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable
dread, that, as he looked, he saw this bell begin to
swing. Soon it rang out loudly, and so did every
bell in the house.
This was succeeded by a clanking noise, deep —
down below, as if some person were dragging a
heavy chain over the casks in the wine-merchant’s
cellar.
Then he heard the noise much louder, on the
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. to
floors below; then coming up the stairs; then
coming straight towards his door.
It came on through the heavy door, and a spectre
passed into the room before his eyes. And upon
its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though
it cried, “‘I know him! Marley’s ghost!”
The same face, the very same. Marley in his
pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights, and boots. His
body was transparent ; so that Scrooge, observing
him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see
the two buttons on his coat behind.
Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had
no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.
No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he
looked the phantom through and through, and saw
it standing before him,— though he felt the chilling
influence of its death-cold eyes, and noticed the
very texture of the folded kerchief bound about its
head and chin, — he was still incredulous.
‘‘ How now!” said Scrooge, caustic and cold ag
ever. ‘‘ What do you want with me ?”’
«* Much ! ’? — Marley’s voice, no doubt about it
‘“ Who are you?” °
‘¢ Ask me who I was.”’
‘* Who were you then ?”’
‘Tn life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.’’
“ Can you — can you sit down? ”’
‘*Pcan)’’
‘¢ Do it, then.”’ c
Scrooge asked the question, because he didn’t
14 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
know whether a ghost so transparent might find
himself in a condition to take a chair ; and felt that,.
in the event of its being impossible, it might in-
volve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation.
But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the
fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.
‘You don’t believe in me.”
61 don’t.7?
‘‘ What evidence would you have of my reality
beyond that of your senses ? ””
“‘T don’t know.”’ |
“ Why do you doubt your senses ?”
“ Because a little thing affects them. A slight
disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You
may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mus-
tard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an under-
done potato. There ’s more of gravy than of grave
about you, whatever you are!”
Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking
jokes, nor did he feel in his heart by any means wag-
gish then. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as
a means of distracting his own attention, and keep-
ing down his horror.
But how much greater was his horror when, the
phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as
if it were too warm to wear in-doors, its lower jaw
_ dropped down upon its breast !
‘Mercy! Dreadful apparition, why do you
trouble me? Why do spirits walk the earth, and
why do they come to me?”
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 18
“Tt is required of every man, that the spirit
within him should walk abroad among his fellow-
men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit
goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after
deat. I cannot tell you all I would. “A very little
more is permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot
stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never
walked beyond our counting-house — mark me! —
in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow
limits of our money-changing hole ; and weary jour-
neys lie before me! ”’
‘‘Seven years dead. And travelling all the
time ? You travel fast ?”’
‘‘On the wings of the wind.”
‘‘You might have got over a great quantity of
ground in seven years.”’
‘‘Q blind man, blind man! not to know that ages
of incessant labor by immortal creatures for this
earth must pass into eternity before the good of
which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to —
know that any Christian spirit working kindly in
its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its
mortal life too short for its vast means of useful-
ness. Not to know that no space of regret can
make amends for one life’s opportunities misused !
Yet I was like this man; I once was like this
man! ”’
“But you were always a good man of business,
Jacob,”’ faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply
this to himself.
é
16 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
‘‘Business!’’ cried the Ghost, wringing its
hands again. ‘Mankind was my business. ‘The
common welfare was my business ; charity, mercy,
forbearance, benevolence, were all my business.
The dealings of my trade were but a dr8p of
water in the comprehensive ocean of my busi-
ness |”?
Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the
spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake
exceedingly.
‘‘Hear me! My time is nearly gone.”
“T will. But don’t be hard upon me! Don’t —
be flowery, Jacob! Pray!” |
‘“‘T am here to-night to warn you that you have
yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A
chance and hope of my procuring, Ebenezer.”’
“You were always a good friend to me.
Thank’ee ! ”
“You will be haunted by Three Spirits.’
‘Is that the chance and hope you mentioned,
Jacob? I—TI think I’d rather not.”
‘‘ Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun
the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow night,
when the bell tolls One. Expect the second on
the next night at the same hour. The third, upon
the next night, when the last stgoke of Twelve has
ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and
look that, for your own sake, you remember what
_has passed between us!”
It walked backward from him; and at every
#
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 17
étep it took, the window raised itself a little, so
that, when the apparition reached it, it was wide
open.
Scrooge closed the window, and examined the
door by which the Ghost had entered. It was
double-locked, as he had locked it with his own
gands, and the bolts. were undisturbed. Scrooge
fried to say, ‘‘ Humbug!” but stopped at the first
syllable. And being, from the emotion he had
undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his
glimpse of the invisible world, or the dull con-
versation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour,
much in need of repose, he went straight to bed,
withcut undressing, and fell asleep on the instant.
18 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
STAVE TWO.
THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS.
HEN Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that,
looking out of bed, he could scarcely dis.
tinguish the transparent window from the opaque
walls of his chamber, until suddenly the church
clock tolled a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy ONE.
Light flashed up in the room upon the instant,
and the curtains of his bed were drawn aside by
a strange figure, —like a child: yet not so like
a child as like an old man, viewed through some
supernatural medium, ‘which gave him the ap-
pearance of having receded from the view, and
being diminished to a child’s proportions. Its
hair, which hung about its neck and down its
back, was white as if with age; and yet the face
had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest bloom
was on the skin. It held a branch of fresh green
holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction
of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with
summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it
was, that from the crown of its head there sprung ~
a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was
visible ; and which was doubtless the occasion of
its using, in its duller moments, a great extin-
guisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm
A CHRISTMAS GAROL. 19
‘‘Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming’ was
foretold to me?”?’ ;
ram 17? ™ i.
“Who and what are you?”
‘“‘T am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Long past?”
‘““No. Your past. The things that you will
see with me are shadows of the things that have
been; they will have no consciousness of us.”?
Scrooge then made bold to inquire what busi-
ness brought him there.
“Your welfare. Rise, and walk with me! 4
It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead
that the weather and the hour were not adapted to
. pedestrian purposes ; that bed was warm, and the
thermometer a long way below freezing ; that he
was clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown,
and nightcap ; and that he had a cold upon him at
that time. The grasp, though gentle as a wo-
man’s hand, was not to be resisted. He rose ; but
finding that the Spirit made towards the window,
clasped its robe in supplication.
‘‘T am-a mortal, and liable to fall.”
‘‘Bear but a teuch of my hand there,” said the
Spirit, laying it upon his heart, “and you shall be
upheld in more than this ! ”’
As the words were spoken, they passed through
the wall, and stood in the busy thoroughfares of
a city. It was made plain enough by the dress-
ing of the shops that here, too, it was Christmas
time. Os
20 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door,
and asked Scrooge if he knew it.
‘Know it! Was I apprenticefl here!”
They wentin At sight of an old gentleman in
a Welsh wig, sitting behind such a high desk that,
if he had been two inches taller, he must have
knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge
cried in great excitement: ‘ Why, it ’s old Fez-
ziwig! Bless his heart, it’s Fezziwig, alive
again! 7”
Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up
at the clock, which pointed to the hour of seven.
He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious
waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shoes
to his organ of benevolence; and called out in a.
comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice: ‘‘ Yo ho,
there! Ebenezer! Dick!”
A living and moving picture of Scrooge’s former
self, a young man, came briskly in, accompanied
by his fellow-prentice.
‘‘Dick Wilkins, to be sure!’’ said Scrooge to
the Ghost. ‘‘ My old fellow-prentice, bless me,
yes. There he is. He was very much attached
to me, was Dick. Poor Dick! Dear, dear! ’’
‘Yo ho, my boys!” said Fezziwig. ‘‘ No more
work to-night. Christmas eve, Dick. Christmas,
Ebenezer! lLet’s have the shutters up, before a
man can say Jack Robinson! Clear away, my
lads, and let ’s have lots of room here !”’
Clear away! There was nothing they wold n’t
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. ' 23
have cleared away, or couldn’t have cleared
away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It wags
done ina minute. Hvery movable was packed off,
as if it were dismissed from public life forever-
more; the floor was swept and watered, the
lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the
fire; and the warehouse was as snug and warm
and dry and bright a ball-room as you would desire
to see upon a winter’s night.
In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went
up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it,
and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came Mrs.
Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the
three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In
came the six young followers whose hearts they
broke. In came all the young men and women em-
ployed in the business. In came the housemaid, with
her cousin the baker. In came the cook, with her
brother’s particular friend the milkman. In they
all came one after another: some shyly, some
boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some
pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow
and everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple
at once ; hands half round and back again the other
way ; down the middle and up again; round and
round in various stages of affectionate grouping ;
old top couple always turning up in the wrong
place ; new top couple starting off again, as soon
as they got there; all top couples at last, and not
a bottom one to help them. When this result wag
23 A CHRISTMAS CAROL:
brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands
to stop the dance, cried out, ‘‘ Well done!’’ and
the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of por-
ter especially provided for that purpose.
There were more dances, and there were forfeits,
and more dances, and there was cake, and there
was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold
Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled,
and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer,
But the great effect of the evening came after the
Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler struck up “ Sir
Roger de Coverley.”? Then old Fezziwig stood out
to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too;
with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them ;
three or four and twenty pair of partners ; people
who were not to be trifled with; people who would
dance, and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been twice as many, — four times,
— old Fezziwig would have been a match for them.
and so would: Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she wag
worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term
A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s
calves. They shone in every part of the dance
You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time,
what would become of ’em next. And when old
Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all thro.gh
the dance, — advance and retire, tur? your partner,
bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle,
and back again to your place, — Fezziwig ‘“ cut,”
—cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with
his legs.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 23
When the clock struck eleven this domestic ball
broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their sta-
tions, one on either side the door, and, shaking
hands with every person individually as he or she
went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas,
When everybody had retired but the two ’prentices,
they did the same to them ; and thus the cheerful
voices died away, and the lads were left to their
beds, which were under a counter in the back shop.
‘‘ A small matter,’’? said the Ghost, ‘to make
these silly folks so full of gratitude. He has
spent but a few pounds of your mortal money, —
three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he
deserves this praise ? ’”’
“It isn’t that,’ said Scrooge, heated by the
remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former,
not his latter self, — “ it isn’t that, Spirit. He has
vhe power to render us happy or unhappy ; to make
our service light or burdensome ;_a pleasure or a
toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks ;
in things so slight and insignificant that it is im-
possible to add and count ’em up: what then? The
happiness he gives is ae as great as if it cost a
fortune.”’
He felt the Spirit’s glance, and stopped.
‘‘ What is the matter ? ”’
“‘ Nothing particular.’’
‘« Something, I think ? ”’
“No, no. I should like to be able to say a word
or two to my clerk just now. Thats all.”
24 _ A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
‘‘My time grows short,’’ observed the Spirit
OO nick)?’
This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any
one whom he could see, but it produced an imme-
diate effect. For again he saw himself. He was
older now; a man in the prime of life.
He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair
young girl in a black dress, in whose eyes there
were tears.
‘It matters little,’’ she said softly to Scrooge’s
former self. ‘To you, very little. Another idol
LAs displaced me; and if it can comfort you in time
to come, as I would have tried to do, I have no
just cause to grieve.”
© Wi.at Idol has displaced you?”
“A golden one. You fear the world too much.
I haye seen your nobler aspiratiuns fall off one by
one, until ‘he waster-passion, Gain, engrosses you.
Have I not?’”’.
«What then? Even if I have grown so much
wiser, what then? I am not changed towards
you. Have I ever sought release from our en-
gagement ?”’
‘¢In words, no. Never.”’
“In what, then? ”’
“Tn a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in
another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its
great end. If you were free to-day, to-morrow,
yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose
a (lowerless girl; or, choosing her, do I not know
3e
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 25
that your repentance and regret would surely
follow? Ido; and I release you. With a full heart,
for the love of him you once were.”’
“Spirit ! remove me from this place.”
‘I told you these were shaddws of the things
that have been,” said the Ghost. ‘ That they are
what they are, do not blame me! ”
‘“Remove me!” Scrooge exclaimed. “I can-
not bear it! Leave me! Take me back. Haunt
me no longer! ”
As he struggled with the Spirit he was conscious
of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible
drowsiness ; and, further, of being in his own bed-
room. He had barely time to reel to bed before he
sank into a heavy sleep.
26 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
STAVE THREE.
THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS.
CROOGE awoke in his own bedroom. There
was no doubt about that. But it and his own
adjoining sitting-room, into which he shuffled in his
slippers, attracted by a great light there, had under-
gone a surprising transformation. The walls and
ceiling were so hung with living green, that it
looked a perfect grove. The leaves of holly,
mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so
many little mirrors had been scattered there; and
such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney
as that petrifaction of a hearth had never known in
Scrooge’s time, or Marley’s, or for many and many
a winter season gone. Heaped upon the floor, to
form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game,
brawn, great joints of meat, sucking pigs, long
wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings,
barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-
cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears,
immense twelfth-cakes, and great bowls of punch.
In easy state upon this couch there sat a Giant
glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in
shape not unlike Plenty’s horn, and who raised
it high to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came
peeping round the door.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. O71
*« ome in, — come in! and know me better, man
Tam the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon
me! You have never seen the like of me before! ”’
‘* Never.”
‘Have never walked forth with the younger
members of my family; meaning (for I am very
young) my elder brothers born in these latea
years ?”’ pursued the Phantom.
“‘T don’t think I have, I am afraid I have not
Have you had many brothers, Spirit ? ”’
‘* More than eighteen hundred.”’
‘‘A tremendous family to provide for! Spirit,
conduct me where you will. I went forth last
night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which
is working now. To-night, if you have aught to
teach me, let me profit by it.”’
‘Touch my robe! ”’
Scrooge did as he was told, and held it fast.
The room and its contents all vanished instantly,
and they stood in the city streets upon a snowy
Christmas morning.
Scrooge and the Ghost passed on, invisible,
straight to Scrooge’s clerk’s; and on the thresh-
old of the doo the Spirit smiled, and stopped to
bless Bob Cratchit’s dwelling with the sprinklings |
of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen
“‘ Bob” a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays
but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet
the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-
roomed house!
28 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife,
dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but
brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a
goodly show for sixpence ; and she laid the cloth,
assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daugh-
ters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter
Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of pota-
toes, and, getting the corners of his: monstrous
shirt-collar (Bob’s private property, conferred upon
his son and heir in honor of the day) into his mouth,
rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and -
yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks.
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl
came tearing in, screaming that outside the ba-
ker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it
for their own; and, basking in luxurious thoughts
of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced
about the table, and exalted Master Peter Cratchit
to the skies, while he (not proud, although his
collars nearly choked him) blew the fire, until the
slow potatoes, bubbling ap, knocked loudly at the
saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.
‘What has ever got your precious father
then ?’’ said Mrs. Cratchit. ‘ And your brother
Tiny Tim! And Martha warn’t as late last
Christmas day by half an hour!”
‘‘Here’s Martha, mother!’’ said a girl, appear-
ing as she spoke.
‘‘Here’s Martha, mother!” cried the two young
Cratchits. ‘Hurrah! There’s such a goose, Mus
tha!’’
Neate
a
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 29
“Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how
late you are!” said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a
dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet
for her.
“ We’da deal Oh work to finish up last night,”
replied the girl, ‘‘and had to clear away this
morning, mother ! ”’
“Well! Never mind so long as you are come,”
said Mrs. Cratchit. ‘Sit ye down before the
fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless yel”’
“No, no! There’s father coming,’’ cried the
two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at
once. ‘ Hide, Martha, hide! ”
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob,
the father, with at least three feet of comfor ter, ex-
clusive of the fringe, hanging down before him ;
and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed,
to look seasonable ; and Tiny Tim upon his shonl-
der. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch,
and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!
““ Why, where ’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratch-
it, looking round.
““ Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.
“Not coming!” said Bob, with a sudden de-
clension in his high spirits; for he had becn
Tim’s blood-horse all the way from church, and
had come home rampant, — “not coming upon
Christmas day! ”’
Martha did n’t like to.see him disappointed, if
it were only in joke ; so she came out prematurely
30 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
from behind the closet door, and 1an into his
arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny
Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he
might hear the pudding singing in the copper.
“ And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs.
Oratchit, when she had rallie¢ Bob on his cre-
dulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his
heart’s content.
“Ag good as gold,” said Bob, ‘Cand better.
Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself
so much, and thinks the strangest things you
ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he
hoped the people saw him in the church, because
he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them
to remember, upon Christmas day, who made lame
beggars walk and blind men see.’
Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them
this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny
Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor,
and back came Tiny Tim before another word was .
spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his
stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up
his cuffs, —as if, poor fellow, they were capfable
of being made more shabby, — compounded sone
hot mixture in’ a jug with gin and lemons, and
stirred it round and round and put it on the hob
to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous
young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with
which they soon returned in high procession.
}
3
!
Pear tare”
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 31
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before.
hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master
Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor ;
Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce ; Mar:
tha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim
beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two
young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not
forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon
their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths,
lest they should shriek for goose before their turn
came to be helped. At last the dishes were set
on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a
breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly
all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge
it in the breast; but when she did, and when
the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth,
one murmur of delight arose all round the board,
and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young
Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his
knife, and feebly cried, Hurrah!
There never was such a goose. Bob said he
didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked.
Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were
the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by
apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufli-
cient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as
Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying
one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they
had n’t ate it all at last! Yet every one had had
enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular
§2 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows
But now, the plates being changed by Miss Be
linda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone, — too ner-
vous to bear witnesses, — to take the pudding up,
and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough! Sup.
pose it should break in turning out! Suppose
somebody should have got over the wall of the
back yard, and stolen it, while they were merry
with the goose, —a supposition at which the two
young Oratchits became livid! All sorts of hor-
rors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding
‘was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-
day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating:
house and a pastry-cook’s next door to each other,
with a laundress’s next door to that! That was
the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit en-
tered, — flushed but smiling proudly, —with the
pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and
firm, blazing in half of half a quartern of ignited
brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck
into the top.
O, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said,
and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest
success achieved by Mrs. Oratchit since their
marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight
was off her mind, she would confess gte had had
her doubts about the quantity of flour. Hverybody
had something to say about it, but nobody said o1
rt ie tt a —
—
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 88
thought it was at all a small pudding for a large
family. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint
at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was
cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up.
The compound in the jug being tasted, and con-
sidered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon
the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the fire.
Then all the Cratchit family drew round the
-hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a sircle,
and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family. dis-
play of glass, —two tumblers, and a custard-cup
without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however,
as well as golden goblets would have done; and
Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the
chestnuts on the fire sputtered and crackled noisily.
Then Bob proposed : —
‘A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God
bless us!”’
Which all the family re-echoed.
‘God bless us every one!’ said Tiny Tim, the
last of all.
He sat very close to his father’s side, upon. his
little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in
his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep
him by his side, and dreaded that he might be
taken from him.
Scrooge raised his head speedily, on hearing his
own name,
8
34 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
“Mr. Scrooge!’ said Bob; ‘I’Il give you |
Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast! ”’
‘The Founder of the Feast indeed !’’ cried Mrs,
Cratchit, reddening. ‘‘I wish I had him here,
I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon,
and I hope he ’d have a good appetite for it.”
‘“‘My dear,’”’ said Bob, ‘‘ the children! Christ-
mas day.”’ |
‘Tt should be Christmas day, I am sure,’’ said
she, ‘‘on which one drinks the health of such an
odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge.
You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better
than you do, poor fellow !”’
‘‘My dear,’’ was Bob’s mild answer, “ Christ-
mas day.”’
“T’ll drink his health for your sake and the
day’s,”’ said Mrs. Cratchit, ‘“‘not for his. Long
life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy
New Year! He’ll be very merry and very happy,
I have no doubt! ”’
9
The children drank the toast after her. It was |
the first of their proceedings which had no hearti-
ness in it. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he
did n’t care twopence for it. Scrooge was the
Ogie of the family. The mention of his name cast
a dark shadow on the party, which was not dis-
pelled for full five minutes.
After it had passed away, they were ten times
merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge
the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told
a
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. $0
them hew he had a situation in his eye for Mas
ter Peter, which would bring in, if obtained,
full five and sixpence weekly. The two young
Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of
Peter’s being a man of business; and Peter him-
self looked thoughtfully at the fire from be-
tween his collars, as if he were deliberating what
particular investments he should favor when he
came into the receipt of that bewildering income.
Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milli-
ner’s, then told them what kind of work she had
to do, and how many hours she worked at a
stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow
morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being
g holiday she passed at home. Also how she
had seen a countess and a lord some days be-
fore, and how the lord ‘‘ was much about as
tall as Peter”’ ; at which Peter pulled up his col-
lars so high that you could n’t have seen his head
if you had been there. All this time the chest-
nuts and the jug went round and round; and by
and by they had a song, about a lost child trav-
_elling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a
plaintive little voice, and sang it very well in-
deed.
There was nothing of high mark in this. They
were not a handsome family ; they were not well
dressed ; their shoes were far from being water-
proof ; their clothes were scanty ; and Peter might
have known, and very likely did, the inside of apawn:
*
36 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
broker’s. But they were happy, grateful, pleased
with one another, and contented with the time ;
and when they faded, and looked happier yet in
the bright sprinklings of the Spirit’s torch at
parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and es-
pecially on Tiny Tim, until the last.
It was a great surprise to Scrooge, as this scene
vanished, to hear a hearty laugh. It was a much
greater surprise to Scrooge to recognize it as his
own nephew’s, and to find himself in a bright, dry,
gleaming room, with the Spirit standing smiling
by his side, and looking at that same nephew.
It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of
things, that while there is infection in disease and
sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly
contagious as laughter and good-humor. When
Scrooge’s nephew laughed, Scrooge’s niece by
marriage laughed as heartily as he. And their
assembled friends, being not a bit behindhand,
laughed out lustily.
‘‘He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I
live !”’ cried Scrooge’s nephew. ‘‘ He believed it
too!” |
‘‘More shame for him, Fred!” said Scrooge’s
niece, indignantly. Bless those women! they.
never do anything by halves. They are always
in earnest. 3 -
She was very pretty ; exceedingly pretty. With
a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe
little mouth that seemed made to be kissed, — as
ae 2s *
.
°
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. of
no doubt it was; all kinds of good little dots
about her chin, that melted into one another
when she laughed; and the sunniest pair of eyes
you ever saw in any little creature’s head. Alto-
gether she was what you would have called pro
voking, but satisfactory, too. O, perfectly satis-
factory.
““He’s a comical old fellow,’’ said Scrooge’s
nephew, “that’s the truth; and not so pleasant
as he might be. However, his offences carry
their own punishment, and I| have nothing to say
against him. Who suffers by his ill whims?
Himself, always. Here he takes it into his head
to dislike us, and he won’t come and dine with
us. What’s the consequence? He don’t lose
much of a dinner.”
‘‘Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner,”
interrupted Scrooge’s niece. Everybody else said
the same, and they must be allowed to have been
competent judges, because they had just had
dinner; and, with the dessert upon the table, were
clustered round the fire, by lamplight.
‘Well, I am very glad to hear it,” said
Scrooge’s nephew, ‘‘ because I have n’t any great
- faith in these young housekeepers. What do you
say, Topper ?”
Topper-clearly had his eye on one of Scrooge’s
niece’s sisters, for he answered that a bachelor
was a wretched cutcast, who had no right to
express an opinion on the subject. Whereat
38 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Scrooge’s niece’s sister —the plump one with
the lace tucker; not the one with the roses —
blushed,
After tea they had some music. For they
were a musical family, and knew what they were
about, when they sung a Glee or Catch, I can as-
sure you,— especially Topper, who could growl
away in the bass like a good one, and never swell
the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the
face over it.
But they did n’t devote the whole evening to
music. After a while they played at forfeits ; for
it is good to be children sometimes, and never
better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder
was a child himself. There was first a game at
blind-man’s-buff though. And I no more believe
Topper was really blinded than I believe he had
eyes in his boots. Because the way in which he
went after that plump sister in the lace tucker was
an outrage on the credulity of human nature.
Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the
chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering
himself among the curtains, wherever’ she went
there went he! He always knew where the plump
sister was. He would n’t catch anybody else. If,
you had fallen up against him, as some of them did,
and stood there, he would have made a feint of en-
deavoring to seize you, which would have been an
affront to your understanding, and would instant'y
have sidled off in the direction of the plump sister.
ne
ees
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 39
‘Here is a new game,” said Scrooge. ‘‘ One
half-hour, Spirit, only one!”
It was a Game called Yes and No, where
Scrooge’s nephew had to think of something, and
the rest must find out what; he only answering to
their questions yes or no, as the case was. The
fire of questioning te which he was exposed
elicited from him that he was thinking of an animal,
a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage
animal, an animal that growled and grunted some-
times, and talked sometimes, and lived in London,
and walked about the streets, and wasn’t madea
show of, and wasn’t led by anybody, and didn’t
live in a menagerie, and was never killed in a
market, and was not a horse, or an ass, or a Cow,
or a bull, or a tiger, or a dog, or a pig, or a Cat, or
a bear. At every new question put to him, this
nephew burst into a fresh roar of laughter; and
was so inexpressibly tickled, that he was obliged
to get up off the sofa and stamp. At last the
plump sister cried out : —
‘‘T have found it out! I know what it is, Fred!
I know what it is!”
‘¢ What is it?”’ cried Fred.
‘It’s your uncle Scro-o-o-o-oge !”
Which it certainly was. Admiration was the
universal sentiment, though some objected that the
reply to ‘“‘Is it a bear?’’ ought to have been
Lah Gh
Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay
40 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
and light of heart, that he would have drank te
the unconscious company in an inaudible speech
But the whole scene passed off in the breath of
the last word spoken by his nephew; and he and
the Spirit were again upon their travels,
Much they saw, and far they went, and many
homes they visited, but always with a happy end.
The Spirit stood beside sick-beds, and they were
cheerful ; on foreign lands, and they were close at
home ; by struggling men, and they were patient
in their greater hope ; by poverty, and it was rich.
In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery’s every
refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority
had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit
out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his
precepts. Suddenly, as they stood together in
an open place, the bell struck twelve.
Scrooge looked about him for the Ghost, and
saw it no more. As the last stroke ceased to
vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob
Marley, and, lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn
Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist
aong the ground towards him.
ee le Ean
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 4]
STAVE FQUR.
THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS.
NHE Phantom slowly, gravely, silently ap-
proached. When it came near him, Scrooge
bent down upon his knee ; for in the air through
which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom
and mystery.
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which
concealed its head, its face, its form, and left
nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand.
He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke
nor moved.
‘‘T am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas
Yet To Come? Ghost of the Future! I fear you
more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know
your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to
live to be another man from what I was, I am
prepared to bear you company, and do it with a
thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?”
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed
straight before them.
“Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning
fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead
on, Spirit!” 7
They scarcely seemed to enter the city; for the
city rather seemed to spring up about them. But
42 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
there they were in the heart of it; on ’Change,
amongst the merchants.
The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of busi-
ness men. Observing that the hand was pointed
to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk.
‘“No,” said a great fat man with a monstrous
chin, ‘‘I don’t know much about it either way. I
only know he’s dead.”’
‘‘ When did he die ?”’ inquired another.
‘‘ Last night, I believe.”
“Why, what was the matter with him? I
thought he ’d never die.”’
‘God knows,” said the first, with a yawn.
‘‘What has he done with his money ?”’ asked a
red-faced gentleman.
‘‘T have n’t heard,’’ said the man with the large
chin. ‘‘Company, perhaps. He has n’t left it to
me. That’s all I know. By, by!”’
Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that
the Spirit should attach importance to conversa-
tion apparently so trivial; but feeling assured
that it must have some hidden purpose, he set
_ himself to consider what it was likely to be. It
could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on
the death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was
Past, and this Ghost’s province was the Future.
He looked about in that very place for his own
image; but another man stood in his accustomed
corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual
time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 43
himself among the multitudes that poured in
through the Porch. It gave him Kittle surprise,
however ; for he had been revolving in Ris mind a
change of life, and he thought and hoped he saw
his new-born resolutions carried out in this.
They left this busy scene, and went into an ob-
ecure part of the town, to a low shop where iron,
old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal were
bought. A gray-haired rascal, of great age, sat
smoking his pipe.
Scrooge and the Phantom came into the pres-
ence of this man, just as a woman with a heavy
bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely
entered, when another woman, similarly laden,
came in too; and she was closely followed by a
man in faded black. After a short period of blank
astonishment, in which the old man with the pipe
had joined them, they all three burst into a laugh.
‘Let the charwoman alone to be the first!’
cried she who had entered first. ‘Let the laun-
dress alone to be the second; and let the under-—
taker’s man alone to be the third. Look here, old
Joe, here’s a chance! If we haven’t all three
met here without meaning it!”
‘“* You could n’t have met in a better place. You
were made free of it long ago, you know; and the
other two ain’t strangers. What have you got to
sell? What have you got to sell?”
‘“‘ Half a miuute’s patience, Joe, and you shall
see.”
44 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
‘¢ What odds then! What odds, Mrs Dilber?”
said the woman. ‘‘ Every person has a right to
take careeof themselves. He always did! Who’s
the worse for the loss of a few things like these ?
Not a dead man, I suppose.”
Mrs. Dilber, whose manner was remarkable for
general propitiation, said, ‘‘ No, indeed, ma’am.”’
‘‘Tfhe wanted to keep ’em after he was dead, a
wicked old screw, why was n’t he natural in his life-
time? If he had been, ne ’d have had somebody to
look after him when he was struck with Death, in-
stead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by
himself.’’
“It’s the truest word that ever was spoke, it’s
a judgment on him.”
“‘T wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it
should have been, you may depend upon it, if I
could have laid my hands on anything else. Open
that bundle, old Joe, and let me know the value of
it. Speak out plain. I’m not afraid to be the first,
nor afraid for them to see it.’’
Joe went down on his knees for the greater
convenience of opening the bundle, and dragged
out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.
‘¢ What do you call this? Bed-curtains!”’
“Ah! Bed-curtains! Don’t drop that oil upon
the blankets, now.’’
‘« His blankets? ”’
‘Whose else’s do you think? He isn’t likely
to take cold without ’em, I dare say. Ah! You
A CHRISYMAS CAROL 45
may look through that shirt till your eyes ache;
but you won’t find a hole in it, nor a threadbare
place. It’s the best he had, and a fine one too.
They ’d have wasted it by dressing him up in it,
if it had n’t been for me.” ,
Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror
“Spirit! Isee,I see. The case of this unhappy
man might be my own. My life tends that way,
now. ' Merciful Heaven, what is this !’’
The scene had changed, and now he almost
touched a bare, uncurtained bed. A pale light,
rising in the outer air, fell straight upon this bed ;
and on it, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was
the body of this plundered unknown man.
‘« Spirit, let me see some tenderness connected
with a death, or this dark chamber, Spirit, will be
forever present to me.”’
The Ghost conducted him to poor Bob Cratchit’s
house, — the dwelling he had visited before, — and
found the mother and the children seated round the
fire.
Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Cratchits.
were as still as statues in one corner, and sat look-
ing up at Peter, who had a book before him. The
mother and her daughters were engaged in needle-
work. But surely they were very quiet!
“«¢ And he took a child, and set him in the midst
of them.’ ”’
Where had Scrooge heard those words? He had
not dreamed them. The boy must have read them
46 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
out, as he and the Spirit crossed the threshold.
Why did he not go on?
The mother laid her work upon the table, and
put her hand up to her face.
«The color hurts my .eyes,”’ she said.
The color? Ah, poor Tiny Tim!
‘““They ’re better now again. It makes them
weak by candle-light ; and I would n’t show weak
eyes to your father when he comes home, for the
world. It must be near his time.’’
‘Past it rather,’’ Peter answered, shutting up
his book. ‘ But I think he has walked a little
slower than he used, these few last evenings,
mother.”’
‘‘T have known him walk with —I have known
him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very
fast indeed.”’ 7
‘¢ And so have I,”’ cried Peter. ‘‘ Often.’’
<< And so have I,’’ exclaimed another. So had all.
‘But he was very light to carry, and his father
loved him so, that it was no trouble, — no trouble.
And there is your father at the door!”’
She huried out to meet him; and little Bob in
his comforter —he had need of it, poor fellow —
came in. His tea was ready ‘for him on the hob,
and they all tried who should help him to it most.
Then the two young Cratchits got upon his knees
and laid, each child, a little cheek against his face,
as if they said, ‘“ Dor’t ~aind it, father Por’t be
grieved | ”’
i i i
i ee Fn
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 47
Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke
pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the
work upon the table, and praised the industry and
speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would
be done long before Sunday, he said.
‘Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert?”
“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob. ‘I wish you
could have gone. It would have done you good to
see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it
often. I promised him that I would walk there on
a Sunday. My little, little child! My little
child !”’ |
He broke down all at once. He could n’t help it.
If he could have helped it, he and his child would
have been farther apart, perhaps, than they were.
‘Spectre,’ said Scrooge, ‘something informs
me that our parting moment is at hand. I know
it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that
was, with the covered face, whom we saw lying
dead? ”’ ;
The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come conveyed
him to a dismal, wretched, ruinous churchyard.
The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed
down to One.
‘‘ Before I draw nearer to that stone to which
you point, answer me one question. Are these
the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they
shadows of the things that May be only ?”
Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave
by which it stood.
48 A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
‘‘ Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to
which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if
the courses be departed from, the ends will change.
Say it is thus with what you show me! ”’
The Spirit was immovable as ever.
Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went ;
aud, following the finger, read upon the stone of
the neglected grave his own name, — EBENEZER
SCROOGE.
‘*Am J that man who lay upon the bed? No,
Spirit! Ono, no! Spirit! hear me! I am not
the man I was. I will not be the man I must
have been but for this intercourse. Why show me
this, if I am past all hope? Assure me that I
yet may change these shadows you have shown
me by an altered life.’’
For the first time the kind hand faltered.
‘*T will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to
keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the
Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all three
shall strive within me. I will not shut out the les-
sons that they teach. O, tell me I may sponge
away the writing on this stone !’’
Holding up his hands in one last prayer to have
his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phan-
tom’s hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and
dwindled down into a bedpost.
Yes, and the bedpost was his own. The bed
was his own, the room was his own. Best
and happiest of all, the Time before him was his
own, to make amends in!
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 49
He was checked in his transports by the
churches ringing out the lustiest peals he had ever
heard.
Running to the window, he opened it, and put
out his head. No fog, no mist, no night; clear,
bright, stirring, golden day.
‘““What ’s to-day?’ cried Scrooge, calling
downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who per-
haps had loitered in to look about him.
sé Eu ? )
‘‘ What ’s to-day, my fine fellow?”
‘*To-day! Why, Curistmas pay.”’
“It’s Christmas day! I haven’t missed it.
Hallo, my fine fellow !”
fetlallod 77 :
‘‘ Do you know the Poulterer’s, in the next street
but one, at the corner ? ”
‘‘T should hope I did.’’ |
“ An intelligent boy! A remarkable boy! De
you know whether they ’ve sold the prize Turkey
that was hanging up there? Not the little prize
Turkey, — the big one?”
‘‘ What, the one as big as me?”
‘‘ What a delightful boy! 1t’s a pleasure to talk
to him. Yes, my buck!”
“It’s hanging there now.”
“Is it? Go-and buy it.”
“ Walk-er!” exclaimed the boy.
‘‘No, no, I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and
tell °em to bring it here, that 1 may give them the
3 D
50: A CHRISTMAS CAROL. |
direction where to take it. Come back with the
man, and Ill give you a shilling. Come back with
him in less than five minutes, and 1’ll give you
half a crown !”
The boy was off like a shot.
“T’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s! He sha’n’t
know who sends it. It’s twice the size of Tiny
Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as
sending it to Bob’s will be!”
The hand in which he wrote the address was not
a steady one; but write it he did, somehow, and
went down stairs to open the street door, ready
for the coming of the poulterer’s man.
It was a Turkey! He never could have stood
upon his legs, that bird. He would have snapped
7em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing- —
wax.
Scrooge dressed himself ‘all in his best,’’ and at
last got out into the streets. The people were by
this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with
the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with
his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every
one with a delighted smile. He looked so irresist-
ibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-
humored fellows said, ‘‘Good morning, sir!
feet HOLLY TREE’ INN:
BY
GHARLES DICKENS
AS CONDENSED BY HIMSELF, FOR HIS
READINGS.
BOSTON:
Bek AND«SHEP AR D.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1879.
Gav’s Hitt, HicHAm By Rocnester, KEnrT,
Tenth October, 1867.
The edition bearing the imprint of Mzssrs. TicKNoR AND FIELDs is
the only correct and authorized edition of my READINGS.
CHARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts,
UniversiTy Press: Wetcu, BicELow, & Ca,
CAMBRIDGE.
a
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
————
EFORE the days of railways, and in the time
of the old Great North Road, I was once
snowed up at the Holly-Tree Inn. Beguiling the
days of my imprisonment there by talking at one
time or other with the whole establishment, I one
day talked with the Boots, when he lingered in my
room. :
Where had he been in his time ? Boots repeated,
when I asked him the question. Lord, he had been
everywhere! And what had he been? Bless you,
everything you could mention a’ most.
Seen a good deal? Why, of course he had. I
should say so, he could assure me, if I only knew
about a twentieth part of what had come in his way.
Why, it would be easier for him, he expected, to
tell what he had n’t seen than what he had. Ah!
a deal, it would.
What was the curiousest thing he had seen?
Well! He didn’t know. He could n’t momently
_ name what was the curiousest thing he had seen, —
unless it was a Unicorn, —and he see him once ata
Fair, But supposing a young gentleman not eight
4 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
year old was to run away with a fine young woman
of seven, might I think ‘hat a queer start? Cer-
tainly! Then that was a start as he himself had
had his blessed eyes on, —and he had cleaned the
shoes they run away in, — and they was so little
that he could n’t get his hand into ’em.
Master Harry Walmers’s father, you see, he lived
at the Elmses, down away by Shooter’s Hill there,
six or seven miles from Lunnon. He was a gentle-
man of spirit, and good-looking, and held his head
up when he walked, and had what you may call
‘Fire about him. He wrote poetry, and he rode, and
he ran, and he cricketed, and he danced, and he
acted, and he done it all equally beautiful. He
was uncommon proud of Master Harry as was his
only child; but he didn’t spoil him, neither. He
was a gentleman that had a will of his own, and a
eye of his own, and that would be minded. Con-
sequently, though he made quite a companion of
the fine bright boy, and was delighted to see him
so fond of reading his fairy books, and was never
tired of hearing him say my name is Norval, or
hearing him sing his songs about Young May
Moons is beaming love, and When he as adores
thee has left but the name, and that: —still he
kept the command over the child, and the child
was a child, and it ’s wery much to be wished more
of ’em was !
How did Boots happen to know all this? Why,
sir, through being under-gardener. Of course I
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN. 3
could n’t be under-gardener, and be always about,
in the summer-time, near the windows on the lawn,
a mowing and sweeping, and weeding and pruning,
and this and that, without getting acquainted with
the ways of the family. Even Supposing Master
Harry had n’t come to me one morning early, and
said, ‘‘ Cobbs, how should you spell Norah, if you
was asked ?”’ and when I give him my views, sir,
respectin’ the spelling o’ that name, he took out his
little knife, and he begun a cutting it in print, all
over the fence.
And the courage of the boy! Bless your soul,
he ’d have throwed off his little hat, and tucked up
his little sleeves, and gone in at a Lion, he would.
One day he stops, along with her (where I was
hoeing weeds in the gravel), and Says, speaking
up, “Cobbs,” he says, ‘I like you.’ “Do you, sir.
I’m proud to hear it.’’ ‘Yes, I do, Cobbs. Why
do I like you, do you think, Cobbs?” “ Don’t
know, Master Harry, I am sure.”’ ‘Because Norah
likes you, Cobbs.”’ ‘Indeed, sir? That’s very
gratifying.” “ Gratifying, Cobbs? It’s better
than millions of the brightest diamonds, to be liked
by Norah.’’ ‘Certainly, sir.’ ‘You ’re going’
away, ain't you, Cobbs?” ‘Yes, sir.’ “ Would
you like another situation, Cobbs?”’ ‘ Well, sir, I
should nt object, if it was a good’un.” « Then,
Cobbs,”’ says that mite, ‘‘ you shall be our Head
Gardener when we are married.’? And he tucks
her, in her little sky-blue mantle, under his arm,
and walks away.
6 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
Boots could assure me that it was better than a
picter, and equal to a play, to see them babies
with their long bright curling hair, their sparkling
eyes, and their beautiful light tread, rambling
about the garden, deep in love. Boots was of
Opinion that the birds believed they was birds, and
kept up with ’em, singing to please ’em. Some-
times they would creep under the Tulip-tree, and
would sit there with their arms round one an-
other’s necks, and their soft cheeks touching, a
reading about the Prince, and the Dragon, and the
good and bad enchanters, and the king’s fair
daughter. Sometimes I would hear them planning
about having a house in a forest, keeping bees and
a cow, and living entirely on milk and honey.
Once I came upon them by the pond, and heard
Master Harry say, ‘‘ Adorable Norah, kiss me, and
say you love me to distraction, or I’ll jump in
head-foremost.’’ On the whole, sir, the contem-
plation o’ them two babbies had a tendency to
make me feel as if I was in love myself, —only I
did n’t exactly know who with.
‘‘ Cobbs,”’ says Master Harry, one evening, when
Il was watering the flowers; “I am going on a
visit, this present midsummer, to my grandmamma’s
at York.”’
“Are you indeed, sir? I hope youll have a
pleasant time. Iam going into Yorkshire, myself,
when I leave here.’’
“Are you going to your grandmamma’s,
Cobbs ? ”
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN. 7
‘‘No, sir. I have n’t got such a thing,”
“ Not as a grandmamma, Cobbs ? ”’
TONG). Sire”
The boy looks on at the watering of the flowers,
for a little while, and then he says, ‘‘I shall be
very glad indeed to go, Cobbs, — Norah’s going.”’
‘‘ You'll be all right then, sir, with your beauti-
ful sweetheart by your side.”’
‘« Cobbs,’’ returns the boy, a flushing, ‘‘ J] never
let anybody joke about that when I_can prevent
them.”
‘Tt was n’t a joke, sir, — was n’t so meant.”
“Tam glad of that, Cobbs, because I like you,
you know, and you’re going to live with us. —
Cobbs !”’
‘Sir’?
‘‘ What do you think my grandmamma gives me,
when I go down there ? ”’
‘‘T could n’t so much as make a guess, sir.”
‘* A Bank of England five-pound note, Cobbs.”
‘Whew! That’s a spanking sum of money,
Master Harry.’’
“ A person could do a good deal with such a sum
of money as that. Could n’t a person, Cobbs ?”
“ T believe you, sir!”’
‘‘ Cobbs,” says that boy, ‘I’Il tell you a secret.
At Norah’s house they have been joking her about
me, and pretending to laugh at our being engaged.
Pretending to make game of it, Cobbs!”
‘‘ Such, sir, is the depravity of human natur.’”’
8 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
The boy, looking exactly like his father, stood
for a few minutes, and then departed with, ‘‘ Good
night, Cobbs. I’m going in.”
If I was to ask Boots how it happened that I was
a going to leave that place just at that present
time, well, I could n’t rightly answer you, sir. I do
suppose I might have stayed there till now, if I
had been anyways inclined. But, you see, he was
younger then, and he wanted change. That ’s what
I wanted, — change. Mr. Walmers, he says to me,
when I give him notice of my intentions to leave,
‘‘ Cobbs,”’ he says, ‘‘ have you anything to com-
plain of ? I make the inquiry, because if I find that
any of my people really has anythink to complain
of, I wish to make it right if I can.” ‘“‘ No, sir;
thanking you, sir, I find myself as well sitiwated
here as I could hope to be anywheres. The truth
is, sir, that I’m a going to seek my fortun.”’ ‘O,
indeed, Cobbs?” he says ; ‘‘ I hope you may find
it.” And Boots could assure me — which he did,
touching his hair with his bootjack — that he
had n’t found it yet.
Well, sir! I left the Elmses when my time was up,
and Master Harry, he went down to the old lady’s
at York, which old lady were so wrapt up in that
child as she would have give that child the teeth
out of her head (if she had had any). What does
that Infant do — for Infant you may call him, and
be within the mark — but cut away from that old
Jady’s with his Norah, on a expedition to go to
Gretna Green and be married!
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN. 9
Sir, I was at this identical Holly-Tree Inn (hav-
ing left it several times since to better myself, but
always come back through one thing or another),
when, one summer afternoon, the coach drives up,
and out of the coach gets them two children. The
Guard says to our Governor, ‘‘I don’t quite make
out these little passengers, but the young gentle-
man’s words was, that they was to be brought
here.” The young gentleman gets out ; hands his
lady out; gives the Guard something for himself ;
says to our Governor, ‘‘ We’re to stop here to-
night, please. Sitting-room and two bedrooms
will be required. Mutton chops and cherry pud-
ding for two!” and tucks her, in her little sky-
blue mantle, under his arm, and walks into the
house much bolder than Brass.
Sir, I leave you to judge what the amazement
of that establishment was, when those two tiny
creatures all alone by themselves was marched
into the Angel; much more so, when I, who had
seen them without their seeing me, give the Gov-
ernor my views of the expedition they was upon. |
‘‘ Cobbs,’’ says the Governor, ‘‘if this is so, I
must set off myself to York and quiet their friends’
minds. In which case you must keep your eye
upon ’em, and humor ’em, till I come back. But
before I take these measures, Cobbs, I should wish
you to find from themselves whether your opinions
is correct.”’ ‘‘ Sir, to you,”’ says I, ‘ that shall be
done directly.”
10 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
So Boots goes up stairs to the Angel, and there
he finds Master Harry on a e-normous sofa, —im-
mense at any time, but looking like the Great Bed
of Ware, compared with him, — a drying the eyes
of Miss Norah with his pocket-hankecher. Their
little legs was entirely off the ground, of course ;
and it really is not possible to express how small
them children looked.
“It’s Cobbs! It’s Cobbs!” cries Master
Harry, and he comes running to me and catching
hold of my hand. Miss Norah, she comes running
to me on t’ other side and catching hold of my
t’ other hand, and they both jump for joy.
“T see you a getting out, sir,’ says I. “I
thought it was you. I thought I could n’t be mis-
taken in your heighth and figure. What’s the
object of. your journey, sir ?— Matrimonial ? ”’
‘‘ We are going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna
Green, returns the boy. We have run away on
purpose. Norah has been in rather low spirits,
Cobbs ; but she ’Il be happy, now we have found
you to be our friend.”’
‘Thank you, sir, and thank you, miss, for your
good opinion. Did you bring any luggage with
you, sir? ”’
If I will believe Boots when he gives me his .
word and honor upon it, the lady had got a parasol,
a smelling-bottle, a round anda half ‘of cold but-
tered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a Doll’s
hairbrush. The gentleman had got about half a
- BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN. 11
dozen yards of string, a knife, three or four sheets
of writing-paper folded up surprisingly small, a
orange, and a Chaney mug with his name on it.
‘‘ What may be the exact natur of your plans,
sir?” says I.
‘To go on,”’ replies the boy — which the courage .
of that boy was something wonderful !—‘‘in the
morning, and be married to-morrow.”
‘‘ Just so, sir. Would it meet your views, sir,
if I was to accompany you?”
They both jumped for joy again, and cried out,
‘¢O yes, yes, Cobbs! Yes!”
‘Well, sir, if you will excuse my having the
freedom to give an opinion, what I should recom-
mend would be this. I’m acquainted with a pony,
sir, which, put in a pheayton that I could borrow,
would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior,
(driving myself if you approved,) to the end of
your journey in a very short space of time. Iam
not altogether sure, sir, that this pony will be at
liberty till to-morrow, but even if you had to wait
over to-morrow for him, it might be worth your
while. As to the small account here, sir, in case
you was to find yourself running at all short, that
don’t signify ; because I’m a part proprietor of
this inn, and it could stand over.”
Boots assures me that when they clapped their
. hands, and jumped for joy again, and called him,
‘*Good Cobbs!’’ and ‘ Dear Cobbs!’’ and bent
across him to kiss one another in the delight of
12 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
their confiding hearts, he felt himself the meanest
rascal, for deceiving ’em, that ever was born.
“Ts there anything you want, just at present,
sir?’’? I says, mortally ashamed of myself.
‘©We should like some cakes after dinner,’’ an-
_ gwers Master Harry, ‘‘ and two apples — and jam.
With dinner we should like to have toast and
water. But Norah has always been accustomed
to half a glass of currant wine at dessert. And so
have I.”’
‘«‘ Tt shall be ordered at the bar, sir,’’ I says.
Sir, I has the feeling as fresh upon me at this
minute of speaking as I had then, that I would
far rather have had it out in half a dozen rounds
with the Governor, than have combined with him ;
and that I wished with all my heart there was any
impossible place where those two babies could make
an impossible marriage, and live impossibly happy
ever afterwards. However, as it could n’t be, I
went into the Governor’s plans, and the Governor
set off for York in half an hour. |
The way in which the women of that house —
without exception—every one of ’em — married
and single — took to that boy when they heard the
story, is surprising. It was as much as could be
done to keep ’em from dashing into the room and
kissing him. They climbed up all sorts of places,
at the risk of their lives, to look at him througha |
pane of glass. And they was seven deep at the
keyhole.
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN. 13
In the evening, I went into the room to see how
the runaway couple was getting on. The gentle-
man was on the window-seat, supporting the lady
in his arms. She had tears upon her face, and
was lying, very tired and half asleep, with her
head upon his shoulder.
‘“‘Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, fatigued, sir?”
‘‘ Yes, she is tired, Cobbs; but she is not used
to be away from home, and she has been in low
spirits again. Cobbs, do you think you could
bring a biffin, please ? ”’
‘‘T ask your pardon, sir. What was it you—”
‘“‘T think a Norfolk biffin would rouse her, Cobbs.
She is very fond of them.”
Well, sir, I withdrew in search of the required
restorative, and the gentleman handed it to the
lady, and fed her with a spoon, and took a little
himself. The lady being heavy with sleep, and
rather cross, “ What should you think, sir,’’ I says,
“of a chamber candlestick ?”? The gentleman ap-
proved ; the chambermaid went first up the great
staircase ; the lady, in her sky-blue mantle, fol-
lowed, gallantly escorted by the gentleman; the
gentleman embraced her at her door, and retired to
his own apartment, where I locked him up.
Boots could n’t but feel with increased acute-
ness what a base deceiver he was, when they con-
sulted him at breakfast (they had ordered sweet
milk-and-water, and toast and currant jelly, over-
night) about the pony. It really was as much as
14° BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
he could do, he don’t mind confessing to me, to ©
look them two young things in the face, and think
what a wicked old father of lies he had grown up
to be. Howsomever, sir, I went on a lying like a
Trojan about the pony. I told ’em that it did so
unfort’nately happen that the pony was half
clipped, you see, and that he could n’t be took out
in that state, for fear it should strike to his inside.
But that he ’d be finished clipping in the course of
the day, and that to-morrow morning at eight
o’clock the pheayton would be ready. Boots’s
view of the whole case, looking back upon it in my
room, is, that Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, was
beginning to give in. She hadn’t had her hair
curled when she went to bed, and she did n’t seem
quite up to brushing it herself, and its getting in
her eyes put her out. But nothing put out Mas-
ter Harry. He sat behind his breakfast-cup, a
tearing away at the jelly, as if he had been his
own father.
In the course of the morning, Master Harry
rung the bell, —it was surprising how that there
boy did carry on, —and said, in a sprightly way,
‘‘Cobbs, is there any good walks in this neighbor-
hood? ”’
‘“‘ Yes, sir. There’s Love Lane.”’
“Get out with you, Cobbs!’?—that was that
there boy’s expression, — ‘‘ you’re joking.”’
‘‘ Begging your pardon, sir, there really is Love
Lane ; and a pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN. 15
be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmers,
Junior.”
‘‘Norah, dear,’’ says Master Harry, “this is
curious. We really ought to see Love Lane. Put
on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we will
go there with Cobbs.”’
Boots leaves me to judge what a Beast he felt
himself to be, when that young pair told him, as
they all three jogged along together, that they had
made up their minds to give him two thousand
guineas a year as head gardener, on account of his
being so true a friend to ’em. Well, sir, I turned
the conversation as well as I could, and I took ’em
down Love Lane to the water-meadows, and there
Master Harry would have drowned himself in a
half a moment more, a getting out a water-lily for
her, — but nothing daunted that boy. Well, sir,
they was tired out. All being so new and strange
to ’em, they was tired as tired could be. And
they laid down on a bank of daisies, like the chil-
dren in the wood, leastways meadows, and fell
asleep.
I don’t know, sir, — perhaps you do, —why it
made a man fit to make a fool of himself, to see
them two pretty babies a lying there in the clear
still sunny day, not dreaming half so hard when
they was asleep as. they done when they was
awake. But Lord! when you come to think of
yourself, you know, and what a game you have
been up to ever since you was in your own cradle,
16 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
and what a poor sort of a chap you are, arter all,
that’s were,it is! Don’t you see, sir?
Well, sir, they woke up at last, and then one
thing was getting pretty clear to me, namely,
that Mrs. Harry Walmerses, Junior’s, temper was
on the move. When Master Harry took her round
the waist, she said he ‘‘ teased her so’’; and when
he says, ‘‘ Norah, my young May Moon, your Har-
ry tease you?’’ she tells him, ‘“‘ Yes; and I want
to go home! ”’
A biled fowl and baked bread-and-butter pud-
ding brought Mrs. Walmers up a little; but I
could have wished, I must privately own to you,
sir, to have seen her more sensible of the woice of
love, and less abandoning of herself to the cur.
rants in the pudding. However, Master Harry, he
kep’ up, and his noble heart was as fond as ever.
Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk,
and begun to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went
off to bed as per yesterday ; and Master Harry
ditto repeated.
About eleven or twelve at night comes back the
Governor in a chaise, along with Mr. Walmers
and a elderly lady. Mr. Walmers says to our
missis : ‘‘ We are much indebted to you, ma’am, for
your kind care of our little children, which we can
never sufficiently acknowledge. Pray, ma’am,
where is my boy?”’ Our missis says: ‘‘ Cobbs
has the dear child in charge, sir. Cobbs, show
Forty!” Then Mr. Walmers, he says: ‘Ah
BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN. 17
Cobbs! Iam glad to see you. I understood you
was here!’’ And I says: “ Yes, sir. Your most
obedient, sir.”’
aT beg your pardon, sir,’ I adds, while unlock-
ing the door; ‘‘I hope you are not angry with
Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy, sir,
and will do you credit and honor.’? And Boots
signifies to me, that if the fine boy’s father had
contradicted him in the state of mind in which he
then was, he thinks he should have “ fetched him
a crack,”’ and took the consequences.
But Mr. Walmers only says, ‘‘ No, Cobbs. No,
my good fellow. Thank you!” and, the door
being opened, goes in, goes up to the bedside,
bends gently down, and kisses the little sleeping
face. Then he stands looking at it for a minute,
looking wonderfully like it (they do say he ran
away with Mrs. Walmers); and then he gently
shakes the little shoulder.
‘‘ Harry, my dear boy! Harry! ”’
Master Harry starts up and looks at his pa.
Looks at me too. Such is the honor of that mite,
that he looks at me, to see whether he has brought
me into trouble.
“i am not angry, my child. I only want you to
dress yourself and come home.”’
“* Y es; pa.’
Master Harry dresses himself quick.
‘* Please may I’? —the spirit of that little crea-
2
18 BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN.
tur, — ‘‘ please, dear pa, —may I —kiss Norah,
before I go?”
‘“ You may, my child.”
So he takes Master Harry in his hand, ‘and I
leads the way with the candle to that other bed-
room, where the elderly lady is seated by the bed,
and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, is fast
asleep. There the father lifts the boy up to the
pillow, and he lays his little face down for an in-
stant by the little warm face of poor little Mrs.
Harry Walmers, Junior, and gently draws it to him,
—a sight so touching to the chambermaids who
are a peeping through the door, that one of them
calls out, ‘It’s a shame to part ’em! ”’
Finally, Boots says, that’s all about it. Mr.
Walmers drove away in the chaise, having hold of
Master Harry’s hand. The elderly lady and Mrs.
Harry Walmers, Junior, that was never to be (she
married a captain, long afterwards, and died in
India), went off next day. In conclusion, Boots .
puts it to me whether I hold with him in two opin-
ions: firstly, that there are not many couples on
their way to be married who are half as innocent
as them two children ; secondly, that it would be
a jolly good thing for a great many couples on
their way to be married, if they could only be
stopped in time and brought back separate.
Nreniouas NICKLEBY
AT
THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL,
BY
Gino DICKENS,
AS CONDENSED BY HIMSELF, FOR HIS
READINGS.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1879.
Gap’s Hitt, HicHAm sy RocuestTer, Kent,
Tenth October, 1867. :
-
The edition bearing the imprint of Messrs. TicKNoR AND FIELDs is
_ the only correct and authorized edition of my Reapincs.
CHARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts,
University Press: Wetcu, BicELtow, & Co.,
CAMBRIDGE.
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.
THREE CHAPTERS.
— oe
CHAP DE RsI-
ICHOLAS NICKLEBY, in the nineteenth year
of his age, arrived at eight o’clock of a No-
vember morning at the sign of the Saracen’s Head,
Snow Hill, London, to join Mr. Squeers, the York-
shire schoolmaster. He had engaged himself to
Mr. Squeers as his scholastic assistant, on the
faith of the following advertisement in the London
papers : —
‘“‘Kpucation.—At Mr. Wackford Squeers’s Acad-
emy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of
Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth
are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-
money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in
all languages living and dead, mathematics, or-
thography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the
use of the globes, algebra, single stick (if required),
writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other
branch of classical literature. Terms, twenty
guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and
diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and
attends daily, from one till four, at the Saracen’s
4 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted.
Annual Salary, £5. A Master of Arts would be
preferred.’’
Mr. Squeers was standing by one of the coffee-
room fireplaces, and his appearance was not pre-
possessing. He had but one eye, and the popular
prejudice runs in favor of two. The blank side of
his face was much puckered up, which gave him a
very sinister appearance, especially when he smiled ;
at which times his expression bordered on the vil-
lanous. He wore a white neckerchief with long
ends, and a scholastic suit of 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 respectable.
The learned -gentleman had before himself a
breakfast of coffee, hot toast, and cold round of
beef; but he was at that moment intent on pre-
paring another breakfast for five little boys.
‘This is twopenn’orth of milk, is it, waiter ? ”’
said Mr. Squeers, looking Bown into a large mug.
“That ’s twopenn’orth, sir.’
‘‘ What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in Lon-
don! Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water,
William, will you? ”’
“To the wery top, sir? Why, the milk will be
drownded.”’
‘Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered
that thick bread and butter for three, did you?”
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 5
‘‘ Coming directly, sir.’
“You need n’t hurry yourself; there ’s plenty
of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don’t
be eager after vittles.’”’? As he uttered this moral
precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the
cold beef, and recognized Nicholas.
“Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a
breakfasting, you see!”’
- Nicholas did not see that anybody was _ break-
fasting except Mr. Squeers; but he bowed, and
looked as cheerful as he could.
“QO, that ’s the milk and water, is it, William ?
Very good; don’t forget the bread and butter
presently.”
At this fresh mention of the bread and butter,
the five little boys looked very eager, and followed
the waiter out, with their eyes; meanwhile Mr.
Squeers tasted the milk and water.
“Ah! here’s richness! Think of the many beg-
gars and orphans in the streets that would be glad
of this, little boys. When I say number one, the
boy on the left hand, nearest the window, may take
a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next
him will go in, and so till we come to number five.
Are you ready? ”’
=) 68, fir.’
“That ’s right; keep ready till I tell you to
begin. Subdue your appetites, and you ’ve con-
quered human natur. Thank God for a good break-
fast. Number one may take a drink.”’
6 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had
just drunk enough to make him wish for more,
when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two,
who gave up at the same interesting moment to
number three ; and the process was repeated until
the milk and water terminated with number five.
“‘ And now,’’ said the schoolmaster, dividing the
bread and butter for three into five portions, ‘‘ you
had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the
coach-horn will blow in a minute or two, and then
every boy leaves off.”
Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys
began to eat voraciously, and in desperate haste :
while the schoolmaster (who was in high good-
humor after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork,
and looked smilingly on. In avery short time the
horn was heard.
“T thought it would n’t be long,”’ said Squeers,
jumping up and producing a little basket; ‘‘ put
what you haven’t had time to eat in here, boys!
You ’ll want it on the road ! ”’
They certainly did want it on the road, and very
much, too; for the weather was intensely cold, a
great deal of snow fell from time to time, and it
was a long journey. But the longest lane has a
turning at last, and late in the night the coach
put them down at a lonely roadside inn, where
they found in waiting two laboring men, a rusty
pony-chaise, and a cart.
‘‘ Put the boys and the boxes into the cart, and
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. c
this young man and me will go on in the chaise.
Get in, Nickleby.”
Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some diffi-
culty inducing the pony to obey too, they started
off, leaving the cart-load of infant misery to follow
at leisure.
‘« Are you cold, Nickleby ? ”
‘‘ Rather, sir, I must say.”’
‘‘ Well, I don’t find fault with that. It’s a long
journey this weather.’’
‘Ts it much further to Dotheboys Hall, sir ? ”’
‘‘ About three mile. But you needn’t call it a
Hall down here.”’
‘‘ Indeed, sir?”
‘The fact is, it ain’t a Hall.”’
‘Indeed ! ”’
‘No. We call it a Hall up in London, because
it sounds better, but they don’t know it by that
name in these parts. A man may call his house
an island if he likes; there’s no act of Parliament
against that, I believe? But here we are! Jump
out! Hallo there! Smike! come and put this
horse up. Be quick, will you, Smike! ”’
Mr. Squeers, having bolted the house-door to
keep it shut, ushered him into a small parlor
scantily furnished, where they had not been a
couple of minutes when a female bounced into
the room, and, seizing Mr. Squeers by the throat,
gave him two loud kisses, —one close after the
other, like a postman’s knock, This lady, who
8 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
had a gentlemanly voice, was of a large, raw-boned
figure, was about a head taller than Mr. Squeers,
and was dressed in a dimity night-jacket, with her
hair in papers and a dirty nightcap.
‘‘ How is my Squeery ? ”
“Quite well, my love. How ’s the cows?”
‘‘ The cows is all right, every one of ’em.”’
‘‘ And the pigs ? ”
“The pigs is as well as they were when you
went away.”’
‘‘That’s a blessing! The boys are all as they
were, I suppose ? ”’
‘OQ yes, they ’re well enough. Only that young
Pitcher ’s had a fever.’’
‘““No! Damn that boy, he’s always at some-
thing of that sort.”’
Pending these little endearments, Nicholas had
stood, awkwardly enough, in the middle of the
room,—not very well knowing whether he was ex-
pected to retire into the passage. He was now
relieved from his perplexity by Mr. Squeers.
‘‘This is the new young man, my dear.”’
A young servant-girl then brought in a Yorkshire
ple and some cold beef; which, being set upon the
table, the boy called Smike appeared with a jug
of ale.
Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets
of letters to different boys, and other small docu-
ments which he had brought down-in them. The
boy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression,
AT THE YORKSHIRE SCHOOL. 9
at the papers, as if with a sickly hope that one
among them might relate to him. The look was
a very painful one, and went to Nicholas’s heart
at once; for it told a long and very sad history.
It induced him to consider the boy more atten-
tively, and he was surprised to observe the extraor-
dinary mixture of garments which formed his dress.
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 was then usually put
upon a very little boy. 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 beg-
gar. God knows how long he had been there,
but he still wore a tattered child’s frill, only half
concealed by a coarse man’s neckerchief. He was
lame; and as he feigned to be busy in arranging
the table, glanced at the letters with a look so
keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that
Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him.
‘eth! *O; it?s. youja Se
i
a
x
4
a.
ove
=
a
we
z
-
=
%
Soke
te ie
———7 — 4
*
—. > ~
i —— - -
ene em awd
ine
-
iP Asn
a
ae; :
by,
.
ee
y=
cs
My MULL YY
Ly ]
MM
CMLL
PSE.
WHAM.
MR. MICAWBER AND HIS FAMILY.
DAVID -COPPERFIELD.
BY
CHARLES DICKENS.
AS CONDENSED BY HIMSELF, FOR HIS
READINGS. ,./,
[yor
/
BOSTON:
Pee NL) (SH: P AIRD.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1879.
Gapv’s Hitt, HicHAm By RocHesTER, KENT,
Tenth October, 1867.
The edition bearing the imprint of Messrs. T1icKNOR AND FIELDs is
the only correct and authorized edition of my READINGs.
CHARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts,
University Press: WELcH, BicELow, & Co,
CAMBRIDGE.
DAVID COPPERFIELD.
—_o——.
CH APD Ene [.
HAD known Mr. Peggotty’s house very well
. in my childhood, and I am sure I could not
have been more charmed with it if it had been
Aladdin’s palace, roc’s egg and all. It was an old
black harge, or boat, high and dry on Yarmouth
sands, with an iron funnel sticking out of it fora
chimney. There was a delightful door cut in the
side, and it was roofed in, and there were little
windows init. It was beautifully clean, and as tidy
as possible. There were some lockers and boxes,
and there was a table, and there was a Dutch
clock, and there was a chest of drawers, and there
was a tea-tray with a painting on it, and the tray
was kept from tumbling down by a Bible, and
the tray, if it had tumbled down, would have
smashed a quantity of cups and saucers and a tea-
pot that were grouped around the book. On the
walls were colored pictures of Abraham in red
going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and of Daniel in
yellow being cast into a den of green lions. Over
the little mantel-shelf was a picture of the “ Sarah
4 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Jane” lugger, built at Sunderland, with a real little
wooden stern stuck on it, — a work of art combin-
ing composition with carpentry, which I had re-
garded in my childhood as one of the most enviable
possessions the world could afford. “Mr. Peggotty,
as honest a seafaring man as ever breathed, dealt
in lobsters, crabs, and crawfish ; and a heap of those
creatures, in a state of wonderful conglomeration
with one another, and never leaving off pinching
whatever they laid hold of, were usually to be
found in a little wooden out-house, where the pots
and kettles were kept.
As in my childhood, so in these days, when I was
a young man, Mr. Peggotty’s household consisted
of his orphan nephew, Ham Peggotty, a young
shipwright ; his adopted niece, little Emily, once
my small sweetheart, now a beautiful young wo-
man; and Mrs. Gummidge.
All three had been maintained at Mr. Peggotty’s
sole charge for years and years, and Mrs. Gum-
midge was the widow of his partner in a boat, who
had died poor. She was very grateful, but she
would have been more agreeable company in a
small habitation if she had hit upon any other ac-
knowledgment of the hospitality she received than
constantly complaining, as she sat in the most com-
fortable corner by the fireside, that she was a
‘Jone lorn creetur, and everythink went contrairy
with her.”’
Towards this old boat I walked one memorable
DAVID COPPERFIELD. o
night, with my former schoolfellow and present dear
friend, Steerforth, — Steerforth, half a dozen years
older than I, brilliant, handsome, easy, winning,
whom I admired with my whole heart, for whom ]
entertained the most romantic feelings of fidelity
and friendship. He had come down with me from
London, and had entered with the greatest ardor
into my scheme of visiting the old simple place,
and the old simple people.
There was no moon, and as he and I walked on
the dark, wintry sands, towards the old boat, the
wind sighed mournfully.
“ This is a wild place, Steerforth, is it not?”
“Dismal enough in the dark, and the sea has a
cry in it, as if it were hungry for us. Is that the
boat, where I see a light yonder ? ”’
‘“‘ That ’s the boat.’
We said no more as we approached the light, but
made softly for the door. I laid my hand upon the
latch, and, whispering Steerforth to keep close to
me, went in, and I was in the midst of the aston-
ished family, whom I had not seen from my child-
hood, face to face with Mr. Peggotty, and holding
out my hand to him, when Ham shouted, ‘‘ Mas’r
Davy ! it’s Mas’r Davy!”
In a moment we were all shaking hands with one
another, and asking one another how we did, and
telling one another how glad we were to meet, and
all talking at once. Mr. Peggotty was so over-
joyed to see me, and to see my friend, that he did
6 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
not know what to say or do, but kept over and
over again shaking hands with me, and then with
Steerforth, and then with me, and then ruffling his
shagey hair all over his head, and then laughing
with such glee and triumph, that it was a treat to
see him.
“Why, that you two gentl’men— gentl’men
growed — should come to this here roof to-night,
of all nights in my life, is such a merry-go-round-
er as never happened afore, I do rightly believe.
Em’ly, my darling, come here. Come here, my lit-
tle witch. Theer’s Mas’r Davy’s friend, my dear!
Theer ’s the gentl’man as you ’ve heerd on, Em’ly.
Tle comes to see you along with Mas’r Davy, on
the brightest night of your uncle’s life as ever was
or will be; horroar for it!’’? Then he let her go,
and, as she ran into her little chamber, looked round
upon us, quite hot and out of breath with his un-
common satisfaction.
“If you two gentl’men — gentl’men’ growed
now, and such gentl’men— don’t ex-cuse me for
being in a state of mind, when you understand
matters, I’ll arks your pardon. - Em’ly, my dear!
She knows I’m going to tell, and has made off.
This bere little Em’ly, sir,’’ to Steerforth, — “ her
as you see a blushing here just now, — this here lit-
tle Em’ly of ours has been in our house, sir, what
I suppose (I’m a ignorant man, but that’s my
belief) no one but a little bright-eyed creetur
can be in a house. She ain’t my child, I never
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 7
had one; but I could n’t love her more if she
was fifty times my child. You understand; I
could n’t do it! ”’
“TI quite understand.”’
“I know you do, sir, and thank’ee. Well, sir,
there was a certain person as had know’d our
Km’ly from the time when her father was drownd-
ed; as had seen her constant when a babby, when
a young gal, when a woman. Not much of a per-
son to look at, he warn’t, — something o’ my own
build, rough, a good deal o’ the sou’wester in
him, wery salt, but, on the whole, a honest sort
of a chap, too, with his art in the right place.”
I had never seen Ham grin to anything like the
extent to which he sat grinning at us now.
‘“What does this here blessed tarpaulin go and
do, but he loses that there art of his to our little
Km’ly. He follers her about, he makes hisself a
sort o’ servant to her, he loses in a great measure
his relish for his wittles, and, in the long run,-he
makes it clear to me wot’s amiss.
‘Well, I counsels him to speak to Em’ly. He’s
big enough, but he’s bashfuller than a little un,
and he says to me he doen’t like. So I speak.
‘What, him!’ says Em’ly, —‘ him that I’ve knowed 3
So intimate so many year, and like so much? O
uncle, I never can have him! He’s such a good
fellow!’ I gives her a kiss, and I says no more
to her than, ‘ My dear, you’re right to speak out,
you ’re to choose for yourself, you’re as free as a
8 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
little bird.’ Then I aways to him, and I says, ‘I
wish it could have been so, but it can’t. But you
can both be as you was, and wot I say to you is,
Be as you was with her, like a man.’ He Says to
me, a shaking of my hand, ‘I will,’ he says. And
he was, honorable, trew, and manful, going on for
two year.
‘‘ All of a sudden, one evening, as it might be to-
night, comes little Em’ly from her work, and him
with her! There ain’t so much in that, you’ll say.
No, sure, because he takes care on her, like a
brother, arter dark, and indeed afore dark, and at
all times. But this heer tarpaulin chap, he takes
_ hold of her hand, and he cries out to me, joyful,
- ‘Look’ee here! This is to be my little wife!’ And
she says, half bold and half shy, and half a laugh-
ing, and half a crying, ‘Yes, uncle! If you please.’
If I please! Lord, as if I should do anythink else!
‘If you please,’ she says, ‘I am steadier now, and
Ihave thought better of it, and I’ll be as good a
little wife as I can to him, for he’s a dear good
fellow!’ Then Missis Gummidge, she claps her
hands like a play, and you come in. There, the
‘murder ’s out! You come in! It took place this
here present hour, and here ’s the man as ’II marry
her the minute she’s out of her time at the needle-
work.”’
Ham staggered, as well he might, under the
blow Mr. Peggotty dealt him, as a mark of confi-
dence and friendship ; but, feeling called upon to
say something to us, he stammered : —
*
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 9
“She warn’t no higher than you was, Mas’r
Davy, when you first come heer, when I thought
what she ’d grow up to be. I see her grow up,
gentl’men, like a flower. I’d lay down my life
for her, Mas’r Davy, —O, most content and cheer-
ful. There ain’t a gentl’man in all the land, nor
yet a sailing upon all the sea, that can love his
lady more than I love her, though there ’s many a
common man as could say better what he meant.’’
I thought it affecting to see such a sturdy fellow
trembling in the strength of what he felt for the
pretty little creature who had won his heart. I
thought the simple confidence reposed in us by
Mr. Peggotty, and by himself, was touching. I
was affected by the story altogether. I was filled
with pleasure, but at first with an indescribably
sensitive pleasure, that a very little would have
changed to pain.
Therefore, if it had depended upon me to touch
the prevailing chord among them, with any skill, I
should have made a poor hand of it. But it de-
pended upon Steerforth, and he did it with such
address, that in a few minutes we were all as easy
as possible.
‘‘Mr. Peggotty,”’ he said, ‘‘ you are a thorough-.
ly good fellow, and deserve to be as happy as you
are to-night. My hand uponit. Ham, I give you
joy, my boy. My hand upon that, too! Davy, stir
the fire and make it a brisk one. And, Mr. Peg-
gotty, unless you can induce your gentle niece to
10 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
come back, I shall go. Any gap at your fireside
on such a night—such a gap, least of all —I
would n’t make for the wealth of the Indies.”
So Mr. Peggotty went to fetch little Em’ly. At
first little Em’ly did n’t like to come, and then
Ham went. Presently they brought her to the
fireside, very much confused, and very shy; but
she soon became more assured when she found
how Steerforth spoke to her; how skilfully he
avoided anything that would embarrass her; how
he talked to Mr. Peggotty of boats, and ships, and
tides, and fish ; how delighted he was with that
boat and all belonging to it; how lightly and easi-
ly he carried on, until he brought us by degrees
into a charmed circle.
But he set up no monopoly of the conversation. —
He was silent and attentive when little Em’ly
talked across the fire to me of our old childish
wanderings upon the beach, to pick up shells
and pebbles; he was very silent and attentive
when I asked her if she recollected how I used to
love her, and how we used to walk about that dim
old flat, hours and hours, and how the days sported
by us as if Time himself had not grown up then,
but were a child like ourselves, and always at
play. She sat all the evening in her old little cor-
ner by the fire, — Ham beside her. I could not sat-
isfy myself whether it was in her little tormenting
way, or in a maidenly reserve before us, that she
kept quite close to the wall, and away from Ham;
but I observed that she did so all the evening.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 11
As I remember, it was almost midnight when we
took our leave. We had had some biscuit and
dried fish for supper, and Steerforth had produced
from his pocket a flask of Hollands. We parted
merrily ; and as they all stood crowded round the
door to light us on our road, I saw the sweet blue
eyes of little Em’ly peeping after us, from behind
Ham, and heard her soft voice calling to us to be
careful how we went.
‘“A most engaging little beauty!” said Steer-
forth, taking my arm. ‘ Well! it’s a quaint place,
and they are quaint company, and it’s quite a new
Sensation to mix with them.”’
‘‘How fortunate we are, too, Steerforth, to
have arrived to witness their happiness in that in-
tended marriage! I never saw people so happy.
How delightful to see it! ’’-
‘‘ Yes, — that’s rather a chuckle-headed fellow
for the girl. Isn’t he?”
I felt a shock in this cold reply. But turning
quickly upon him, and seeing a laugh in his eyes,
I answered : — ‘
‘Ah, Steerforth! It’s well for you to joke
about the poor! But when I see how perfectly
you understand them, and how you can enter into |
happiness like this plain fisherman’s, I know there
is not a joy, or sorrow, or any emotion of such
people that can be indifferent to you. And I ad-
mire and love you for it, Steerforth, twenty times
the more !”’
12 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
To my surprise he suddenly said, with nothing
that I could see to lead to it : —
“Daisy, I wish to God I had had a judicious
father these last twenty years! You know my
mother has always doted on me and spoilt me.
I wish with all my soul I had been better guided !
I wish with all my soul I could guide myself
better!”’
There was a passionate dejection in his manner
that quite amazed me. He was more unlike him-
self than I could have supposed possible.
‘Tt would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or
his lout of a nephew, than be myself, twenty times
richer and twenty times wiser, and be the torment
to myself that I have been in that. Devil’s bark of
a boat within the last halfhour.”’
I was so confounded by the change in him that
at first I could only regard him in silence as he
walked at my side. At length I asked him to tell
me what had happened to cross him so unusually.
“Tut, it’s nothing, — nothing, Davy! I must
have had a nightmare, I think. What old women
call the horrors have been creeping over me from
head to foot. I have been afraid of myself.”
‘You are afraid of nothing else, I think.”
‘‘ Perhaps not, and yet may have enough to be
afraid of too. Well! so it goes by! Daisy, —
for though that’s not the name your godfathers
and godmothers gave you, you’re such a fresh fel-
low that it’s the name I best like to call you by, —
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 13
and I wish, I wish, I wish you could give it to
me !”’
‘Why, so I can, if I choose.”
“ Daisy, if anything should ever happen to sepa-
rate us, you must think of me at my best, old boy.
Come! let us make that bargain. Think of me at
my best, if circumstances should ever part us.”
‘“ You have no best to me, Steerforth, and no
worst. You are always equally loved and cherished
in my heart.”
Iwas up to go away alone next morning with
the dawn, and, having dressed as quietly as I could,
looked into his room. He was fast asleep, lying
easily with his head upon his arm, as I had often
seen him lie at school.
The time came in its season, and that was very
soon, when I almost wondered that nothing troubled
his repose, as I looked at him then. ~ But he slept
—let me think of him so again—as I had often
seen him sleep at school; and thus, in this silent
hour, I left him.
Nevermore, O God forgive you, Steerforth! to
touch that passive hand in love and friendship.
Never, never more! ,
gs
14 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
CHAPTER II.
“4 OME months elapsed before I again found my-
S self down in that part of the country and
approaching the old boat by night.
It was a dark evening, and rain was beginning
to fall, when I came within sight of Mr. Peggotty’s
house, and of the light within it shining through
the window. A little floundering across the sand,
which was heavy, brought me to the door, and I
went in.
I was bidden to a little supper; Em’ly was to
be married to Ham that day fortnight, and this was
the last time I was to see her in her maiden life.
It looked very comfortable indeed. Mr. Peg-
gotty had smoked his evening pipe, and there were
preparations for supper by and by. The fire was
bright, the ashes were thrown up, the locker was
ready for little Em’ly in her old place. Mrs. Gum-
midge appeared to be fretting a little in her own
corner, and consequently looked quite natural.
‘‘You’re-first of the lot, Mas’r Davy! Sit ye
down, sir. It ain’t 0’ no use saying welcome to
you; but you ’re welcome, kind and hearty.”
Here Mrs. Gummidge groaned.
‘‘Cheer up, cheer up, Mrs. Gummidge! ”? said
Mr. Peg gotty.
‘No, no, Dan’l. It ain’t o’ no use telling me to
DAVID COPPERFIELD. ¥5
cheer up, when everythink goes contrairy with me.
Nothink’s nat’ral to me but to be lone and lorn.”’
After looking at Mrs. Gummidge for some mo-
ments with great sympathy, Mr. Peggotty glanced
at the Dutch clock, rose, snuffed the candle, and
put it in the window.
‘‘Theer! theer we are, Missis Gummidge !”
Mrs. Gummidge slightly groaned again. ‘‘ Theer
we are, Mrs. Gummidge, lighted up accordin’ to cus-
tom! You’re a wonderin’ what that’s fur, sir!
Well, it’s for our little Emly. You see, the path
ain’t over light or cheerful arter dark; and when
I ’m here at the hour as she’s a comin’ home from
her needle-work down town, I puts the light in the
winder. That, you see, meets two objects. She
says to herself, says Em’ly, ‘ Theer ’s home!’ she
says. And likeways, says Em’ly, ‘My uncle's
theer!’ Fur if I ain’t theer, I never have no light
showed. You may say this is like a babby, sir.
Well, I doen’t know but what I am a babby in re-
gard o’ Em’ly. Not to look at, but to—to con-
sider on, you know. I doen’t care, bless you!
Now I tell you. When I go a looking and looking
about that theer pritty house of our Hm’ly’s, all
got ready for her to be married, if I doen’t feel as
if the littlest things was her, a’most. I takes ’em
up, and I puts ’em down, and I touches of ’em as
delicate as if they was our Em’ly. So ’tis with
her little bonnets and that. JI could n’t see one on
’em rough used, a purpose, not fur the whole.
wureld.
16 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
‘It’s my opinion, you see, as this is along of
my havin’ played with Em’ly so much when she
was a child, and havin’ made believe as we was
Turks, and French, and sharks, and every wariety
of forriners, — bless you, yes; and lions and
whales, and I don’t know what all! — when she
warn’t no higher than my knee. I’ve got into the
way on it, you know. Why, this here candle, now!
I know wery well that arter she’s married and
gone, I shall put that candle theer, just the same
as now, and sit afore the fire, pretending I’m ex-
pecting of her, like as 1’m a doing now. Why, at
the present minute when I see the candle sparkle
up, I says to myself, ‘She’s a looking at it!
m’ly’s a coming!’ Right, too, fur here she is!”
No; it was only Ham. The night should have
turned more wet since I came in, for he had a large
sou’wester hat on, slouched over his face.
‘‘ Where ’s Em’ly ?”’
Ham made a movement as if she were outside.
Mr. Peggotty took the light from the window,
trimmed it, put it on the table, and was stirring
the fire, when Ham, who had not moved, said,
“‘ Mas’r Davy, will you come out a minute, and
see what Em’ly and me has got to show you ? ”
As I passed him, I saw to my astonishment and
fright that he was deadly pale. He closed the
door upon us. Only upon us two.
‘‘Ham! What’s the matter ? ”’
“My love, Mas’r Davy, — the pride and hope of
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 17
my art,—her that I’d have died for, and would
die for now, — she’s gone! ”’
‘“‘Gone! ”
“Em’ly’s run away! You’re a scholar and
know what ’s right and best. What am I to Say,
in-doors? How am I ever to break it to him, Mas’r_
Davy ?”’
I saw the door move, and tried to hold the latch,
to gain a moment’s time. It was too late. Mr.
Peggotty thrust forth his face; and never could I
forget the change that came upon it when he saw
‘us, if I were to live five hundred years.
I remember a great wail and cry, and the women
hanging about him, and we all standing in the
room, —I with an open letter in my hand which
Ham had given me; Mr. Peggotty with his vest
torn open, his hair wild, his face and lips white,
and blood trickling down his bosom (it had
sprung from his mouth, I think). 7
‘Read it, sir; slow, please. I doen’t know as I
can understand.”’
In the midst of the silence of death, I read thus,
from the blotted letter Ham had given me. In
Km’ly’s hand, addressed to himself : —
““*« When you, who love me so much better than |
I ever have deserved, even when my mind was
innocent, see this, I shall be far away. When I
leave my dear home—my dear home —O, my
dear home !—in the morning,’ ”’ (the letter bore
date on the previous night,) ‘it will be never
2 ¢
18 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
to come back, unless he brings me back a lady.
This will be found at night, many hours after,
instead of me. For mercy’s sake, tell uncle that
I never loved him half so dear as now. QO,
don’t remember you and I were ever to be mar-
ried, but try to think as if I died when I was
very little, and was buried somewhere. Pray
Heaven that I am going away from, have compas-
sion on my uncle! Be his comfort. Love some
good girl, that will be what I was once to uncle,
and that will be true to you, and worthy of you,
and know no shame but me. God bless all! If he’
don’t bring me back a lady, and I don’t pray for
my own self, Ill pray for all. My parting love to
uncle. My last tears, and my last thanks, for
uncle!’ ’’? That was all.
He stood, long after I had ceased to read, still
looking at me. Slowly at last he moved his eyes
from my face, and cast them round the room.
‘“‘Who’s the man? I want to know his name.”’
Ham glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock.
‘“Mas’r Davy! Go out a bit, and let me tell him
what I must. You doen’t ought to hear it, sir.”’
I sank down in a chair and tried to utter some
reply ; but my tongue was fettered, and my sight
was weak. For I felt that the man was my
friend, the friend I had unhappily introduced there,
— Steerforth, my old schoolfellow and my friend.
‘‘T want to know his name!”
‘¢ Mas’r Davy, it ain’t no fault of yourn, — and J
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 19
am far from laying of it to you, — but it is your
friend Steerforth, and he’s a damned villain !”
Mr. Peggotty moved no more, until he seemed to
wake all at once, and pulled down his rough coat
from its peg in a corner.
‘Bear a hand with this! I’m struck of a heap,
and can’t do it. Bear ahand and help me. Well!
Now give me that theer hat!”
Ham asked him whither he was going.
‘I’m a going to seek my niece. I’m a going to
seek my Em’ly. I’m a going, first, to stave in
that theer boat as he gave me, and sink it where
I would have drownded him, as 1’m a livin’ soul, if
I had had one thought of what was in him! As he
sat afore me, in that boat, face to face, strike me
down dead, but I’d have drownded him, and
thought it right!—I’m a going fur to seek my
niece.”
“¢ Where ? ”
‘‘ Anywhere! I’m a going to seek my niece
through the wureld. I’m a going to find my poor
niece in her shame, and bring her back wi’ my com-
fort and forgiveness. No one stop me! I tell
you I’m a going to seek my niece! I’m a going
to seek her fur and wide ! ”’
Mrs. Gummidge came between them in a fit of
crying. ‘‘No, no, Dan’l, not as you are now.
Seek her in a little while, my lone lorn Dan’'l, and
that Il be but right; but not as you are now.
Sit ye down, and give me your forgiveness for
20 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
having ever been a worrit to you, Dan’l, — what
have my contrairies ever been to this !—and let
us speak a word about them times when she was
first a orphan, and when Ham was too, and when
I was a poor widder woman and you took me in.
It ll soften your poor heart, Dan’l, and you ’ll bear
your sorrow better; for you know the promise,
Dan’l, ‘As you have done it unto one of the least
of these, you have done it unto me’ ; and that can
never fail under this roof, that’s been our shelter
for so many, many year! ”’
He was quite passive now; and when I heard
him crying, the impulse that had been upon me to
go down upon my knees and curse Steerforth
yielded to a better feeling. My overcharged heart
found the same relief as his, and I cried too.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 21
CHAPTER IIT:
T this period of my life I lived in my top set
of chambers in Buckingham Street, Strand,
London, and was over head and ears in love with
Dora. I lived principally on Dora and coffee. My
appetite languished, and I was glad of it, for I felt as
though it would have been an act of perfidy towards
Dora to have a natural relish for my dinner. I
bought four sumptuous waistcoats — not for myself,
I had no pride in them — for Dora. I took to wear-
ing straw-colored kid gloves in the streets. I laid
the foundations of all the corns I have ever had. If
the boots I wore at that period could only be pro-
duced, and compared with the natural size of my
feet, they would show in a most affecting manner
what the state of my heart was.
Mrs. Crupp, the housekeeper of my chambers,
must have been a woman of penetration ; for when
this attachment was but a few weeks old she found
it out. She came up to me one evening when I
was very low, to ask (she being afflicted with
spasms) if I-could oblige her with a little tincture |
of cardamums, mixed with rhubarb, and flavored
with seven drops of the essence of cloves ; or, if I
had not such a thing by me, with a little brandy.
As I had never even heard of the first remedy, and
always had the second in the closet, I gave Mrs.
3° DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Crupp a glass of the second, which (that I might
have no suspicion of its being devoted to any im-
proper use) she began to take immediately.
‘‘Cheer up, sir,’? said Mrs. Crupp. ‘‘ Excuse
me; I know what it is, sir. There’s a lady in the
case.”
‘Mrs. Crupp?”
“OQ, bless you! Keep a good heart, sir! Never
say die, sir! If she don’t smile upon you, there’s
amany as will. You’re a young gentleman to be
smiled on, Mr. Copperfull, and you must learn your
walue, sir.’
Mrs. Crupp always called me Mr. Copperfull :
firstly, no doubt, because it was not my name ; and
secondly, I am inclined to think, im some indistinct
association with a washing-day.
‘‘What makes you suppose there is any young
lady in the case, Mrs. Crupp ? ”’
‘‘ Mr. Copperfull, I’m a mother myself. Your
boots and your waist is equally too small, and you
don’t eat enough, sir, nor yet drink. Sir, I have
laundressed other young gentlemen besides you.
It was but the gentleman which died here before
yourself that fell in love, — with a barmaid, — and
had his waistcoats took in directly, though much
swelled by drinking.”’
‘Mrs. Crupp, I must beg you not to connect
the young lady in my case with a barmaid, or any-
thing of that sort, if you please.”’
‘Mr. Copperfull, I’m a mother myself, and not
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 23
likely. I ask your pardon, sir, if I intrude. I
should never wish to intrude where I were not
welcome. But you are a young gentleman, Mr.
Copperfull, and my adwice to you is, to cheer up,
sir, to keep a good heart, and to know your own
walue. If you was to take to something, sir, — if
you was to take to skittles, now, which is healthy,
— you might find it divert your mind, and do you
good.”’
I turned it off, and changed the subject by in-
forming Mrs. Crupp that I wished to entertain at
dinner next day my esteemed friend Traddles and
Mr. and Mrs. Micawber; and I took the liberty
of suggesting a pair of soles, a small leg of mut-
ton, and a pigeon-pie. Mrs. Crupp broke out into
rebellion on my first bashful hint in reference to her
cooking the fish and joint. But, in the end, a com-
promise was effected, and Mrs. Crupp consented to
achieve this feat on condition that I dined from
home for a fortnight afterwards.
Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punch,
to be compounded by Mr. Micawber, having pro-
vided a bottle of lavender-water, two wax candles,
a paper of mixed pins, and a pincushion, to assist
Mrs. Micawber in her toilet, at my dressing-ta-
ble, having also caused the fire in my bedroom to
be lighted for Mrs. Micawber’s convenience, and
having laid the cloth with my own hands, I await-
ed the result with composure.
At the appointed time my three visitors arrived
24 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
together. Mr. Micawber, with more shirt-collar
than usual, and a new ribbon to his eye-glass ;
Mrs. Micawber, with her cap in a parcel; Traddles
carrying the parcel, and supporting Mrs. Micaw-
ber on his arm. They were all delighted with my
residence. When I conducted Mrs. Micawber to
my dressing-table, and she saw, the scale on which
it was prepared for her, she was in such raptures
that she called Mr. Micawber to come in and look.
‘“‘My dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber,
‘‘this is luxurious. ‘This is a way of life which re-
minds me of the period when I was myself in a
state of celibacy. Jam at present established on
what may be designated as a small and unassum-
ing scale; but you are aware that I have, in the
course of my career, surmounted difficulties and
conquered obstacles. You are no stranger to the
fact that there have been periods of my life, when
it has been requisite that I should pause until cer-
tain expected events should turn up, — when it has
been necessary that I should fall back before mak-
ing what I trust I shall not be accused of presump-
tion in terming —a spring. The present is one of
those momentous stages in the lifeof man. You
find me fallen back for a spring, and I have every
reason to believe that a vigorous leap will shortly
be the result.’
IT informed Mr. Micawber that I relied upon him
for a bowl of punch, and led him to the lemons. I
never saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself, as
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 25
- he stirred, and mixed, and tasted, and looked as
if he were making, not mere punch, but a fortune
for his family down to the latest posterity. As to
Mrs. Micawber, I don’t know whether it was the
eflect of the cap, or the lavender-water, or the pins,
or the fire, or the wax candles, but she came out of
my room, comparatively speaking, lovely,
I suppose —I never ventured to inquire, but I
suppose — that Mrs. Crupp, after frying the soles,
was taken ill. Because we broke down at that
point. The leg of mutton came up very red inside,
and very pale outside, besides having a foreign
substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over it, as if
it had had a fall into ashes. But we were not in
a condition to judge of this fact from the appear-
ance of the gravy, forasmuch as it had been all
dropped on the stairs. The pigeon-pie was not
bad, but it was a delusive pie, the crust being like
a disappointing phrenological head, — full of lumps
and bumps, with nothing particular underneath.
In short, the banquet was such a failure that I
should have been quite unhappy — about the failure
I mean, for I was always unhappy about Dora —if
I had not been relieved by the great good-humor
of my company.
‘““My dear friend Copperfield,” said Mr. Micaw-
ber, “accidents will occur in the best-regulated
families, and especially in families not regulated by
that pervading influence which sanctifies while it
enhances the —a —]I would say, in short, by the
26 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
influence of Woman in the lofty character of Wife..
If you will allow me to take the liberty of remark-
ing that there are few comestibles better, in their
way, than a Devil, and that I believe, with a little
division of labor, we could accomplish a good one
if the young person in attendance could produce a
gridiron, I would put it to you, that this little mis-
fortune may be easily repaired.”’
There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my
morning rasher of bacon was cooked. We had
it out ina twinkling. Traddles cut the mutton into
slices; Mr. Micawber covered them with pepper,
mustard, salt, and cayenne ; I put them on the grid-
iron, turned them with a fork, and took them
off, under Mr. Micawber’s direction; and Mrs.
Micawber heated some mushroom ketchup in a
little saucepan. Under these circumstances my
appetite came back miraculously. I am ashamed
to confess it, but I really believe I forgot Dora for
a little while.
‘Punch, my dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micaw-
ber, tasting it as soon as dinner was done, “ like
time and tide, waits for no man. Ah! it is at the
present moment in high flavor. My love, will you
give me your opinion ?”’
Mrs. Micawber pronounced it excellent.
‘¢ As we are quite confidential here, Mr. Copper-
field,’? said Mrs. Micawber, sipping her punch,
‘¢(Mr. Traddles being a part of our domesticity),
I should much like to have your opinion on Mr.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 27
‘Micawber’s prospects. I have consulted branches
of my family on the course most expedient for
Mr. Micawber to take, and it was, that he should
immediately turn his attention to coals.”
‘To what, ma’am ?”
“To coals. To the coal trade. Mr. Micawber
was induced to think, on inquiry, that there might
be an opening for a man of his talent in the Med-
way Coal Trade. Then, as Mr. Micawber very prop-
erly said, the first step to be taken clearly was to
go and see the Medway; which we went and saw.
I say ‘we,’ Mr. Copperfield ; for I never will
desert Mr. Micawber. I am a wife and mother,
and I never will desert Mr. Micawber.’’ Traddles
and I murmured our admiration. ‘‘ That,’ said
Mrs. Micawber, — ‘‘ that, at least, is my view, my
dear Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of the
obligation which I took upon myself when I re-
peated the irrevocable words, ‘I, Emma, take thee,
Wilkins.” I read the service over with a flat
candle, on the previous night, and the conclusion
I derived from it was that I never could or would
desert Mr. Micawber.”’
“My dear,”’ said Mr. Micawber, a little impa-
tiently, ‘‘I am not conscious that you are expected
to do anything of the sort.”’
‘““We went,” repeated Mrs. Micawber, ‘“‘ and
saw the Medway. My opinion of the coal trade on
that river was, that it might require talent, but
that it certainly requires capital. Talent, Mr. Mi-
28 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
cawber has; capital, Mr. Micawber has not. We
saw, I think, the greater part of the Medway, and
that was my individual conclusion. My family
were then of opinion that Mr. Micawber should
turn his attention to corn—on commission. But
corn, as I have repeatedly said to Mr. Micawber,
may be gentlemanly, but it is not remunerative.
Commission to the extent of two and ninepence in
a fortnight cannot, however limited our ideas, be
considered remunerative.”’
We were all agreed upon that.
‘‘Then,’’ said Mrs. Micawber, who prided her-
self on taking a clear view of things, and keeping
Mr. Micawber straight by her woman’s wisdom,
when he might otherwise go.a little crooked, —
‘then I naturally look round the world, and say,
‘What is there in which a person of Mr. Micaw-
ber’s talent is likely to succeed?’ I may have
a conviction that Mr. Micawber’s manners pecu-
liarly qualify him for the banking business. I
may argue within myself, that, if I had a deposit
in a banking-house, the manners of Mr. Micaw-
ber, as representing that banking-house, would ‘in-
spire confidence and extend the connection. But
if the various banking-houses refuse to avail them-
selves of Mr. Micawber’s abilities, or receive the
offer of them with contumely, what is the use of
dwelling upon that idea? None. As to originat-
ing a banking business, I may know that there
are members of my family, who, if they chose
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 29
to place their money in Mr. Micawber’s hands,
might found an establishment of that description.
But if they do not choose to place their money in
Mr. Micawber’s hands,—which they don’t, —
what is the use of that? Again I contend that we
are no farther advanced than we were before.’
I shook my head, and said, ‘‘ Not a bit.”? Trad-
dles also shook his head, and said, ‘‘ Not a bit.’’
‘‘ What do I deduce from this ?’’? Mrs. Micawber
went on to say, still with the same air of putting a
case lucidly. ‘‘ What is the conclusion, my dear
Mr. Copperfield, to which I am irresistibly brought.
Am I wrong in saying it is clear that we must
live? ”’
I answered, ‘‘ Not at all!’’ and Traddles an-
swered, ‘‘ Not at all! ’’? and I found myself after-
wards sagely adding, alone, that a person must
either live or die.
‘‘ Just so,’’? returned Mrs. Micawber. “It is
precisely that. And here is Mr. Micawber without
any suitable position or employment. Where doeg
that responsibility rest? Clearly on society.
Then I would make a fact so disgraceful known,
and boldly challenge society to set it right. It
appears to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that what |
Mr. Micawber has to do is to throw down the
gauntlet to society and say, in effect, ‘Show me
who will take that up. Let the party immediately
step forward.’ ”’
I ventured to ask Mrs. Micawber how this was
to be done.
30 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
‘ By advertising in all the papers. It appears
to me, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, in justice
to himself, in justice to his family, and I will even
go so far as to say in justice to society, by which
he has been hitherto overlooked, is to advertise
in all the papers ; to describe himself plainly as so.
and so, with such and such qualifications, and to
put it thus: ‘ Now employ me on remunerative
terms, and address, post-paid, to W. M., Post-
Office, Camden Town.’ ”
‘« Advertising is rather expensive,” I remarked.
‘“‘ Exactly so!’’ said Mrs. Micawber, preserving
the same logical air. ‘‘ Quite true, my dear Mr.
Copperfield. I have made the identical observa-
tion to Mr. Micawber. It is for that reason, espe-
cially, that I think Mr. Micawber ought to raise a
certain sum of money — on a bill.”
Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair, trifled
with his eye-glass, and cast his eye up at the ceil-
ing; but I thought him observant of Traddles, too,
who was looking at the fire.
‘‘If no member of my family,’’ said Mrs. Micaw-
ber, ‘‘is possessed of sufficient natural feeling to
negotiate that bill,—I believe there is a better
business term to express what I mean —”
Mr. Micawber, with his eyes still cast up at the
ceiling, suggested, ‘‘ Discount.”
‘To discount that bill then, my opinion is, that
Mr. Micawber should go into the city, should take
that bill into the money market, and should dispose
of it for what he can get.”’
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 3]
I felt, but I am sure I don’t know why, that this
was highly self-denying and devoted in Mrs. M1-
cawber, and I uttered a murmur to that effect.
Traddles, who took his tone from me, did likewise,
and really I felt that she was a noble woman, —
the sort of woman who might have been a Roman
matron, and done all manner of troublesome heroic
public actions.
In the fervor of this impression, I congratulated
Mr. Micawber on the treasure he possessed. So
did Traddles. Mr. Micawber extended his hand to
each of us in succession, and then covered his face
with his pocket-handkerchief, — which I think had
more snuff upon it than he was aware of. He then
returned to the punch in the highest state of ex-
hilaration.
Mrs. Micawber made tea for us in a most agree-
able manner, and after tea we discussed a variety
of topics before the fire ; and she was good enough
to sing us (in a small, thin, flat voice, which I re-
membered to have considered, when I first knew
her, the very table-beer of acoustics) the favorite
ballads of ‘‘The Dashing White Sergeant” and
“Little Tafflin.”’ For both of these songs Mrs.
Micawber had been famous when she lived at home
with her papa and mamma. Mr. Micawber told us
that when he heard her sing the first one, on the
first occasion of his seeing her beneath the parental
roof, she had attracted his attention in an extraor-
dinary degree; but that when it came to “ Little
32 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Tafflin’’ he had resolved to win that woman or
perish in the attempt.
It Was between ten and eleven o’clock when Mrs.
Micawber rose to replace her Cap in the parcel, and
to put on her bonnet. Mr. Micawber took the op-
portunity to slip a letter into my hand, with a
whispered request that I would read it at my lei-
sure. I also took the opportunity of my holding a
candle over the banisters to light them down,
when Mr. Micawber was going first, leading Mrs.
Micawber, to detain Traddies for a moment on. the
top of the stairs.
‘“‘Traddles, Mr. Micawber don’t mean any harm,
but, if I were you, I would n’t lend him anything’.’’
‘““My dear Copperfield, I have n’t got anything
tolend.” .
‘You have got a name, you know.”
“QO, you call that something to lend ?”
“ Certainly.”’
“QO, yes, to be sure! I am very much obliged
to you, Copperfield, but —I am afraid I have lent
him that already.”’
‘For the bill that is to go into the money mar-
ket?” :
‘“‘No, not for that one. This is the first I have
heard of that one. I have been thinking that he
will most likely propose that one on the way
home. Mine’s another.”’
‘‘T hope there will be nothing wrong about it.”
“‘T hope not. I should think not, though, be-
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 83
cause he told me, only the other day, that it was
provided for. That was Mr. Micawber’s expres-
sion, ‘ provided for.’ ”’
Mr. Micawber looking up at this juncture, I had
only time to repeat my caution. Traddles thanked
me, and descended. But I was much afraid, when
I observed the good-natured manner in which he
went down with Mrs. Micawber’s cap in his hand,
that he would be carried into the money market,
neck and heels.
I returned to my fireside, and read Mr. Micaw- -
ber’s letter, which was dated an hour and a half
before dinner. I am not sure whether I have men-
tioned that, when Mr. Micawber was at any partic-
ularly desperate crisis, he used a sort of legal
phraseology, which he seemed to think equivalent
to winding up his affairs.
This was the letter.
‘« Sir, — For I dare not say my dear Copperfield,
— It is expedient that I should inform you that the
undersigned is Crushed. Some flickering efforts
to spare the premature knowledge of his calami-
tous position, you may observe in him this day ;
but hope has sunk beneath the horizon, and the un-
dersigned is Crushed. |
“The present communication is penned within
the personal range (I cannot call it the society) of
an individual in a state closely bordering on intoxi-
cation, employed by a broker. That individual is
3
84 - DAVID COPPERFIELD.
in legal possession of the premises, under a distress
for rent. His inventory includes, not only the
chattels and effects of every description belonging
to the undersigned, as yearly tenant of this habita-
tion, but also those appertaining to Mr. Thomas
Traddles, lodger, a member of the Honorable So-
ciety of the Inner Temple.
‘Tf any drop of gloom were wanting in the over-
flowing cup, which is now ‘commended’ (in the
language of an immortal Writer) to the lips of the
undersigned, it would be found in the fact that a
friendly acceptance granted to the undersigned
by the before-mentioned Mr. Thomas Traddles, for
the sum of £ 23 4s. I+d. is overdue, and is not
provided for. Also, in the fact, that the living re-
sponsibilities clinging to the undersigned will, in
the course of nature, be increased by the sum of
one more helpless victim, whose miserable appear-
ance may be looked for—in round numbers — at
the expiration of a period not exceeding six lunar
months from the present date.
‘‘ After premising thus much, it would be a work
of supererogation to add that dust and ashes are
forever scattered
6 On
‘‘ The
“‘ Head
6c Of
“ Witxins Micawser.’’
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 35
CHAPTER IV.
~{ELDOM did I wake at night, seldom did I look
Ss up at the moon, or stars, or watch the falling
rain, or hear the wind, but I thought of the soli-
tary figure of the good fisherman, toiling on, —
poor Pilgrim, —and recalled his words, ‘“‘I’m a
going to seek my niece. I’m a going to seek
her fur and wide.”’
Months passed, and he had been absent —no
one knew where — the whole time. It had been a
bitter day in London, and a cutting northeast wind
had blown. The wind had gone down with the
light, and snow had come on. My shortest way
home — and I naturally took the shortest way on
such a night —was through St. Martin’s Lane.
On the steps of the church there was the figure of
a man, and I stood face to face with Mr. Peggotty.
‘“Mas’r Davy! It do my art good to see you,
sir. Well met, well met! ”
‘‘ Well met, my dear old friend! ”’
‘‘T had thowts o’ coming to make inquiration
for you, sir, to-night, but it was too late. I should |
have come ee in the morning, sir, afore going
away agen.”
“* Again?”
“Yes, sir, 1’m away to-morrow.’’
In those days there was a side entrance to the
36 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
stable-yard of the Golden Cross Inn. Two or
three public rooms opened out of the yard, and
looking into one of them, and finding it empty and
a good fire burning, I took him in there.
“Til tell you, Mas’r Davy, wheer-all I’ve been,
and what-all we ’ve heerd. I’ve been fur, and
we ve heerd little; but Ill tell you.”
As he sat thinking, there was a fine massive gray-
ity in his face which I did not venture to disturb.
‘You see, sir, when she was a child she used to
talk to me a deal about the sea, and about them
coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to
lay a shining and a shining in the sun. When she
was lost, | know’d in my mind as he would take
her to them countries. I know’d in my mind as
he ’d have told her wonders of ’em, and how she
was to be a lady theer, and how he first got her to
listen him along o’ sech like. I went across chan-
nel to France, and landed theer, as if I’d fell down
from the skies. I found out a English gentleman, as
was in authority, and told him I was going to seek
my niece. He got me them papers as I wanted fur
to carry me through, —I doen’t rightly know how
they ’re called, —and he would have give me money,
but that I was thankful to have no need on. I
thank him kind for all he done, I’m sure. I told
him, best as I was able, what my gratitoode was,
and went away through France, fur to geek my
niece,”’
‘‘ Alone, and on foot? ”’
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 87
‘‘ Mostly afoot ; sometimes in carts, along with
people going to market; sometimes in empty
coaches. Many mile a day afoot, and often with
some poor soldier or another, travelling fur to see
his friends. I could n’t talk to him, nor he to me;
but we was company for one another, too, along
the dusty roads. When I come to any town, I
found the inn, and waited about the yard till some
one came by (some one mostly did) as know’d
English. Then I told how that I was on my way
to seek my niece, and they told me what manner of
gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to see
any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it
warn’t Emly, I went on agen. By little and little,
when I come to a new village or that, among the
poor people, I found they know’d about me. They
would set me down at their cottage doors, and
give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show
me where to sleep. And many a woman, Mas’r
Davy, as has had a daughter about Em’ly’s age,
I’ve found awaiting for me, at Our Saviour’s Cross
outside the village, fur to do me sim’lar kindnesses.
Some has had daughters as was dead. And God
only knows how good them mothers was to me!”
I laid my trembling hand upon the hand he put
before his face. ‘‘ Thank’ee, sir, doen’t take no
notice.”
‘* At last I come to the sea. It warn’t hard,
you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to
work his way over to Italy. When I got theer I
38 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
wandered on as I had done afore. I got news of
her being seen among them Swiss mountains yon-
der. I made for them mountains, day and night.
Ever so fur as I went, ever so fur them mountains
seemed to shift away from me. But I come up
with ’em, and I crossed ’em. I never doubted her.
No! Notabit! On’y let her see my face, — on’y
let her heer my voice, —on’y let my stanning
still afore her bring to her thoughts the home she
had fled away from, and the child she had been, —
and if she had growed to be a royal lady, she’d
have fell down at my feet! Iknow’d it well! I
bought a country dress to put upon her. To put
that dress upon her, and to cast off what she wore,
—to take her on my arm again, and wander to-
wards home, — to stop sometimes upon the road
and heal her bruised feet and her worse bruised
heart, — was all I thowt of now. But, Mas’r
Davy, it warn’t to be — not yet! I was too late,
and they was gone. Wheer, I could n’t learn.
Some said heer, some said theer. I travelled heer,
and I travelled theer, but I found no Km’ly, and I
travelled home.”
“‘ How long ago ? ”
‘“A matter o’ fower days. I sighted the old
boat arter dark, and I never could have thowt,
I’m sure, that the old boat would have been so
strange.”
From some pocket in his breast he took out,
with a very careful hand, a small paper bundle
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 39
containing two or three letters or little packets
which he laid upon the table.
‘The faithful creetur Missis Gummidge gave me
these. This first one come afore I had been gone
a week. A fifty-pound bank-note in a sheet of
paper, directed to me, and put underneath the door
in the night. She tried to hide her writing, but
she could n’t hide it from Me! This one come to
Missis Gummidge two or three months ago. Five
pounds.”
It was untouched, like the previous sum, and he
refolded both.
‘Tg that another letter in your hand?”
‘‘Tt’s money too, sir. Ten pound, you see.
And wrote inside, ‘From a true friend.’ But the
two first was put underneath the door, and this
come by the post, day afore yesterday. I’m going
to seek her at the post-mark.”
He showed it to me. It was a town on the Up-
per Rhine. He kad found out at Yarmouth some
foreign dealers who knew that country, and they
had drawn him a rude map on paper, which he
could very well understand.
I asked him how Ham was. 3
‘He works as bold as a mancan. He’s never
been heerd fur to complain. But my belief is
(twixt ourselves), as it has cut him deep. Well,
having seen you to-night, Mas’r Davy (and that
does me good), I shall away betimes to-morrow
morning. You have seen what I’ve got heer,”’
40 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
putting his hand on where the little packet lay,
‘“‘ All that troubles me is, to think that any harm
might come to me afore this money was give back,
If I was to die, and it was lost or stole or elseways
made away with, and it was never know’d by him
but what I’d accepted of it, I believe the tother
wureld would n’t hold me! I believe I must come
back!”
He rose, and I rose too. We grasped each other
by the hand again ; and as we went out into the
rigorous night, everything seemed to be hushed in
reverence for him, when he resumed his solitary
journey through the snow.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 41
CHAS TE Ry Ve
LL this time I had gone on loving Dora harder
than ever. If-I may so express it, I was
steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and
ears in love with her, I was saturated through and
through. I took night walks to Norwood where
she lived, and perambulated round and round the
house and garden for hours together, looking
through crevices in the palings, using violent ex-
ertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on the
top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows,
and romantically calling on the night to shield my
Dora, —I don’t exactly know from what, —I sup-
pose from fire, perhaps from mice, to which she
had a great objection.
Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken
in years, almost of the ripe age of twenty, I should
say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora called her
Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy
Miss Mills ! :
One day Miss Mills said: ‘‘ Dorais coming to
stay with me. She is coming the day after to-
morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa
would be happy to see you.”
I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness.
At last, arrayed for the purpose, at a vast expense,
I went to Miss Mills’s, fraught with a declaration.
42 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Mr. Mills was not at home. I did n’t expect he
would be. Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was
at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room up stairs, where Miss
Mills and Dora were. Dora’s little dog Jip was
there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora
was painting flowers. What where my feelings
when I recognized flowers I had given her!
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very
sorry her papa was not at home, though I thought
we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was
conversational for a few minutes, and then, lay-
ing down her pen, got up and left the room.
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
‘‘T hope your poor horse was not tired when he
got home at night from that picnic,” said Dora,
lifting up her beautiful eyes. ‘It was a long way
for him.”
I began to think I would do it to-day. |
“It was a long way for him, for he had nothing
to uphold him on the journey.”
‘‘ Was n’t he fed, poor thing ? ”’ asked Dora.
I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.
‘“ Ye—yes, he was well taken care of. I mean
he had not the autora eS happiness that I had in
being so near to you.”
I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be
done on the spot.
‘“‘T don’t know why you should care for being
near me,” said Dora, ‘‘ or why you should call it a
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 48
happiness. But of course you don’t mean what
you say. Jip, you naughty boy, come here! ”’
I don’t know how I did it, but I did it in a mo-
ment. Jintercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms.
I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a
word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I
should die without her. I told her that I idolized
and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the |
time. My eloquence increased, and I said, if she
would like me to die for her, she had but to say
the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to
distraction every minute, day and night, since I
first set eyes upon her. I loved her at that minute
to distraction. I should always love her, every
minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before,
and lovers would love again ; but no lover had ever
loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as
I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip
barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad
every moment.
Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa
by and by quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her
lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind.
I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I
were engaged.
Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I
went to my darling to expatiate on that unfortu-
nate drawback. I soon carried desolation into the
bosom of our joys — not that I meant to do it, but
that I was so full of the subject — by asking Dora,
without the smallest preparation, if she could love
a beggar. ;
44 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
‘‘How can you ask me anything so foolish?
Love a beggar!”’
‘‘ Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar! ”’
‘‘How can you be such a silly thing,” replied
Dora, slapping my hand, ‘as to sit there, telling
such stories? I’ll make Jip bite you, if you are
so ridiculous.”’
But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry.
She did nothing but exclaim, O dear! O dear!
And O, she was so frightened! And where was
Julia Mills? And O, take her to Julia Mills, and.
go away, please! until I was almost beside my-
self.
I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on
her face ; I went down on my knees; I plucked at
my hair; I implored her forgiveness; I besought
her to look up; I ravaged Miss Mills’s work-box
for a smelling-bottle, and, in my agony of mind,
applied an ivory needle-case instead, and dropped
all the needles over Dora.
At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified
expression which I gradually soothed until it was
only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lying
against mine.
“Ts your heart mine still, dear Dora? ”’
“QO yes! O yes! it ’s all yours. O, don’t be
dreadful ! ”
‘‘ My dearest love, the crust well earned — ”’
‘““O yes; but I don’t want to hear any more
about crusts. And after we are married, Jip must
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 45
have a mutton chop every day at twelve, or he.’ll
die.”’
I was charmed with her childish, winning way,
and I fondly explained to her that Jip should
have his mutton chop with his accustomed regu-
larity.
When we had been engaged some half-year or
so, Dora delighted me by asking me to give her
that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to
show her how to keep accounts, as I had once
promised I would. I brought the volume with me
on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to
make it look less dry and more inviting), and
showed her an old housekeeping book of my
aunt’s, and gave her a set of tablets, and a pretty
little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to practise
housekeeping with.
But the cookery-book made Dora’s head ache,
and the figures made her cry. They would n’t add
up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew
little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all
over the tablets.
Time went on, and at last, here in this hand of
mine, I held the wedding license. . There were the
two names in the sweet old visionary connection,
— David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow ;-and there
in the corner was that parental institution, the
Stamp Office, looking down upon our union; and
' there, in the printed form of words, was the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury, invoking a blessing on us,
-
46 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
and doing it as cheap as could possibly be ex-
pected.
I doubt whether two young birds could have
known less about keeping house than I and my
pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course.
She kept house for us. We had an awful time of it
with Mary Anne.
Her name was Paragon. Her nature was repre-
sented to us, when we engaged her, as being feebly
expressed in her name. She had a written charac-
ter, as large as a Proclamation, and according to
this document could do everything of a domestic
nature that ever I heard of, and a great many
things that I never did hear of. She was a woman
in the prime: of life ; of a severe countenance, and
subject (particularly in the arms) to a sort of per-
petual measles. She had a cousin in the Life
Guards, with such long legs that he looked like
the afternoon shadow of somebody else. She was
warranted sober and honest; and I am therefore
willing to believe that she was in a fit when we
found her under the boiler, and that the deficient
teaspoons were attributable to the dustman. She
was the cause of our first little quarrel.
‘‘ My dearest life,’’ I said. one day to Dora, “‘ do
you think Mary Anne has any idea of time ?”’
“Why, Doady?”’
‘‘My love, because it’s five, and we were to
have dined at four.’’
My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 47
coax me to be quiet, and drew a line with her pen-
cil down the middle of my nose; but I could n’t
dine off that, though it was very agreeable.
‘‘ Don’t you think, my dear, it would be better
for you to remonstrate with Mary Anne? ”’
“Ono, please! I could n’t, Doady!”’
‘‘ Why not, my love?”
‘“Q, because I am such a little goose, and she
knows I am!”’ ;
I thought this sentiment so incompatible with
the establishment of any system of check on Mary
Anne, that I frowned a little. _
‘“ My precious wife, we must be serious some-
times. Come! sit down on this chair, close be-
side me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let
us talk sensibly. You know, dear,’’ what a little
hand it was to hold, and what a tiny wedding-ring
it was to see, — ‘“‘ you know, my love, it is not ex-
actly comfortable to have to go out without one’s
dinner. Now, is it ?”’
‘ N-n-no!”’ replied Dora, faintly.
‘‘ My love, how you tremble!”’
‘* Because I know you ’re going to scold me.”
‘‘ My sweet, I am only going to reason.”’
‘OQ, but reasoning is worse than scolding! I
did n’t marry to be reasoned with. If you meant
to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you
ought to have told me so, you cruel boy! ”’
“Dora, my darling! ”’
‘No, Iam not your darling. Because you must
48 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
be sorry that you married me, or else you would
n’t reason with me! ”’
I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature
of this charge, that it gave me courage to be
grave,
‘‘ Now, my own Dora, you are childish, and are
talking nonsense. You must remember, I am sure,
that I was obliged to go out yesterday when din-
ner was half over; and that, the day before, I was
made quite unwell by being obliged to eat under-
done veal in a hurry; to-day, I don’t dine at all,
and I am afraid to say how long we waited for
breakfast, and then the water did n’t boil. I don’t
mean to reproach you, my dear, but this is not
comfortable.”’
‘““O, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagree-
able wife |”
‘“Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I
never said that!” .
‘You said I was n’t comfortable ! ”
‘““T said the housekeeping was not comfortable.”
“It’s exactly the same thing! and I wonder, I
do, at your making such ungrateful speeches. When
you know that the other day, when you said you
would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself,
miles and miles, and ordered it to surprise you.”
‘And it was very kind of you, my own darling ;
and I felt it so much that I would n’t, on any ac- °
count, have mentioned that you bought a salmon,
which was too much for two; or that it cost one
pound six, which was more than we can afford.”
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 49
‘‘You enjoyed it very much,” sobbed Dora.
‘¢ And you said I was a Mouse.”
“And I’ll say so again, my love, a thousand
times |” |
I said it a thousand times, and more, and went
on saying it until Mary Anne’s cousin deserted into
our coal-hole, and was brought out, to our great
amazement, by a picket of his companions in arms,
who took him away handcuffed in a procession that
covered our front garden with disgrace.
Everybody we had anything to do with seemed
to cheat us. Our appearance in a shop was a
signal for the damaged goods to be brought out
immediately. If we bought a lobster it was full
of water. All our meat turned out tough, and
there was hardly any crust to our loaves.
As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes,
and coming in a state of penitent intoxication to
apologize, I suppose that might have happened
several times to anybody. Also the chimney on
fire, the parish engine, and perjury on the part of
the beadle. But I apprehend we were personally
unfortunate in our page, whose principal function
was to quarrel with the cook. We wanted to get
rid of him, but he was very much attached to us,
and wouldn’t go, until one day he stole Dora’s |
watch, and spent the produce (he was always a
weak-minded boy) in riding up and down between
London and Uxbridge outside the coach.
He was taken to the Police Office on the comple-
4
50 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
tion of his fifteenth journey ; when four and six-
pence, and a second-hand fife which he could n’t
play, were found upon his person.
He was tried, and ordered to be transported.
Even then he could n’t be quiet, but was always
writing us letters; and he wanted so much to see
Dora before he went away, that Dora went to visit
him, and fainted when she found herself inside the
iron bars. I had no peace of my life until he was
expatriated and made (as I afterwards heard) a
shepherd of ‘‘ up the country ’’ somewhere, I have
no geographical idea where.
‘‘T am very sorry for all this, Doady,’’ said
Dora. ‘‘ Will you call me a name I want you to
call me ? ”’
‘‘ What is it, my dear ? ”’
“It’s a stupid name, —Child-wife. When you
are going to be angry with me, say to yourself, ‘It’s
only my ‘Child-wife.” When I am very disappoint-
ing, say, ‘I knew a long time ago, that she would
make but a Child-wife.’, When you miss what you
would like me to be, and what I should like to be,
and what I think I never can be, say, ‘ Still my
foolish Child-wife loves me.’ For indeed I do.”’
I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved
to come out of the mists and shadows of the past,
and to turn its gentle head towards me once again,
and to bear witness that it was made happy by
what I answered.
DAVID COPPERFIELD. dl
CHAPTER VI.
HEARD a footstep on the stairs one day. I
knew it to be Mr. Peggotty’s. It came nearer,
nearer, rushed into the room.
“ Mas’r Davy, I’ve found her! I thank my
Heavenly Father for having guided of me in his own
ways to my darling!”
“You have made up your mind as to the future,
good friend ?”
“Yes, Mas’r Davy, theer’s mighty countries fur
from heer. Our future life lays over the sea.”
As he gave me both his hands, hurrying to return
to the one charge of his noble existence, I thought
of Ham, and who would break the intelligence to
him. Mr. Peggotty thought of everything. He
had already written to the poor fellow, and had the
letter in the pocket of his rough coat, ready for the
post. I asked him for it, and said I would go
down to Yarmouth, and talk to Ham myself before
I gave it him, and prepare him for its contents.
He thanked me very earnestly, and we parted,
with the understanding that I would go down by
the mail that same night. In the evening I
started.
“Ton’t you think that,’’ I asked the coachman,
in the first stage out of London, ‘‘ a very remark-
52 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
able sky ? I don’t remember to have ever seen one
like it.”
‘¢Nor I. That’s wind, sir. There ’ll be mis-
chief done at sea before long.”’
It was a murky confusion of flying clouds tossed
up into most remarkable heaps, through which the
wild moon seemed to plunge headlong, as if, in a
dread disturbance of the laws of nature, she had
lost her way. There had been a wind all day; and
it was rising then, with an extraordinary great
sound. In another hour it had much increased,
and the sky was more overcast, and it blew
hard.
But as the night advanced, it came on to blow
harder and harder. Many times, in the dark part
of the night (it was then late in September), we
were in serious apprehension that the coach would
be blown over; and when the day broke, the wind
blew harder, and still harder. I had been in Yar-
mouth when the seamen said it blew great guns,
but I had never known the like of this, or anything
approaching to it.
As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the
sea, from which this mighty wind was blowing
dead on shore, its force became more and more ter-
rific. When we came within sight of the sea, the
waves on the horizon, seen at intervals above the
rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another shore
with towers and buildings. When at last we got
into the town, the people came out to their doors,
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 53
making a wonder of the mail that had come through
such a storm.
The tremendous sea itself, when I could find
pause to look at it, in the agitation of the blinding
wind, the flying stones and sand, and the awful
noise, confounded me. As the high watery walls
came rolling in, and tumbled into surf, I seemed
to see a rending and upheaving of all nature.
Not finding Ham among the people whom this
memorable wind — for it is still remembered down
there as the greatest ever known to blow upon
that coast — had brought together on the beach,
I made my way to his house.
I learned that he had gone on a job of ship-
wright’s work some miles away, but that he would
be back to-morrow morning in good time.
So I went back to the inn; and when I had
washed and dressed, and tried to sleep, but in
vain, it was late in the afternoon. I had not sat
five minutes by the coffee-room fire, when the
waiter, coming to stir it, told me that two colliers
had gone down, with all hands, a few miles off;
and that some other ships had been seen laboring
hard in the Roads, and trying, in great distress, to
keep off shore. Mercy on them, and on all poor
sailors, said he, if we had another night like the
last ! |
I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not
continue steadfast to anything. My dinner went
away almost untasted, and I tried to refresh myself
54 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
with a glass or two of wine. Invain. I walked
to and fro, tried to read an old gazetteer, listened
to the awful noises, looked at faces, scenes, and
figures in the fire. At length the’ ticking of the
undisturbed clock on the wall tormented me to
that degree that I resolved to go to bed.
For hours I lay in bed listening to the wind and
water, imagining, now, that I heard shrieks out at
sea; now, that I distinctly heard the firing of sig-
nal-guns ; now, the fall of houses in the town. At
length my restlessness attained to such a pitch that
I hurried on my clothes and went down stairs. In
the large kitchen all the inn servants and some
other watchers were clustered together.
One man asked me, when I went in among them,
whether I thought the souls of the colliers’ crews
who had gone down were out in the storm.
I remained with these people, I dare say, two
hours. Once I opened the yard gate and looked
into the empty street. The sand, the sea-weed,
and the flakes of foam were driving by, and I was
obliged to call for assistance before I could shut
the gate again, and make it fast against the wind.
There was a dark gloom in my lonely chamber,
when I at length returned to it; but I was tired
now, and, getting into bed again, fell into the
depths of sleep until broad day; when I was
aroused at eight or nine o’clock by some one
knocking and calling at my door.
‘‘ What is the matter ?”
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 55
‘‘A wreck! close by!”’
“ What wreck ?”
« A schooner from Spain or Portugal, laden with
fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to
see her! It’s thought down on the beach she’ll
go to pieces every moment.”
I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as
I could, and ran into the street, where numbers of
people were before me, all running in one direc-
tion, —to the beach. I ran the same way, outstrip-
ping a good many, and soon came facing the wild
sea. Every appearance it had before presented
bore the expression of being swelled ; and the height
to which the breakers rose and bore one another
down, and rolled in, in interminable hosts, was most
appalling.
In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind
and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable
confusion, and my first breathless efforts to stand
against the weather, I was so confused that I
looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing
but the foaming heads of the great waves.
A boatman laid a hand upon my arm, and pointed.
Then I saw it, close in upon us.
One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet
from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in
a maze of sail and rigging ; and all that ruin, as the
ship rolled and beat, — which she did with a vio-
lence quite inconceivable, — beat the side as if it
would stave it in, Some efforts were being made ~
56 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
to cut this portion of the wreck away; for as the
ship, which was broadside on, turned towards us in
her rolling, I plainly descried her people at work
with axes, — especially one active figure, with long
curling hair. But a great cry, audible even above
the wind and water, rose from the shore ; the sea,
Sweeping over the wreck, made a clean breach,
and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks,
heaps of such toys, into the boiling surge.
The second mast was yet standing, with the rags
of a sail, and a wild confusion of broken cordage,
flapping to and fro. The ship had struck once, the
same boatman said, and then lifted in, and struck
again. I understood him to add that she was part-
ing amidships. As he spoke, there was another
great cry of pity from the beach. Four men arose
with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the
rigging of the remaining mast; uppermost, the ac-
tive figure with the curling hair.
There was a bell on board ; and as the ship rolled
and dashed, this bell rang ; and its sound, the knell
of those unhappy men, was borne towards us on
the wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose.
Two of the four men were gone.
I noticed that some new sensation moved
the people on the beach, and I saw them part,
and Ham come breaking through them to the
front.
Instantly I ran to him, for I divined that he
meant to wade off with a rope. I held him back
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 57
with both arms ; and implored the men not to lis-
ten to him, not to let him stir that sand.
Another cry arose, and we saw the cruel sail,
with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two
men, and fly up in triumph round the active figure
left alone upon the mast.. Against such a sight,
and against such determination as that of the
calmly desperate man, who was already accus-
tomed to lead half the people present, I might as
hopefully have entreated the wind.
I was swept away to some distance, where the
people around me made me stay; urging, as I con-
fusedly perceived, that he was bent on going, with
help or without, and that I should endanger the
precautions for his safety by troubling those with
whom they rested. JI saw hurry on the beach, and
men running with ropes, and penetrating into a
circle of figures that hid him from me. Then I saw
him standing alone, in a seaman’s frock and trou-
sers, a rope in his hand, another round his body,
and several of the best men holding to the lat-
ter.
The wreck was breaking up. I saw that she
was parting in the middle, and that the life of the
solitary man upon the mast hung bya thread. He
had a singular red cap on, not like a sailor’s cap,
but of a finer color; and as the few planks between
him and destruction rolled and bulged, and as his
death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to wave
this cap. I saw him do it now, and thought I was
58 DAVID COPPERFIELD.
going distracted, when his action brought an old
remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend,
the once dear friend, — Steerforth.
Ham watched the sea until there was a great
retiring wave ; when he dashed in after it, and in a
moment was buffeting with the water, rising with
the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the
foam, — borne in towards the shore, borne on to-
wards the ship.
At length he neared the wreck. ‘He was so near,
that with one more of his vigorous strokes he would
be clinging to it, when, a high, green, vast hill-
side of water moving on shoreward from beyond
the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty
bound, — and the ship was gone !
They drew him to my very feet, insensible,
dead. He was carried to the nearest house, and
every means of restoration was tried; but he had
been beaten to death by the great wave, and his
generous heart was stilled forever.
As I sat beside the bed, when hope was aban-
doned, and all was done, a fisherman who had
known me when Emily and I were children, and
ever since, whispered my name at the door.
‘Sir, will you come over yonder?”
The old remembrance that had been recalled to
me was in his look, and I asked him, ‘ Has a body
come ashore ? ”
ey 66.7
“Do I know it.?”
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 59
He answered nothing. But he led me to the
shore. And on that part of it where she and I had
looked for shells, two children, — on that part of it
where some lighter fragments of the old boat blown
down last night had been scattered by the wind,
— among the ruins of the home he had wronged, —
I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I
had often seen him lie at school.
$< =
— SS 7 Ly —=
—<————— ——
DGMMMY
AND BETSEY PRIG,
SAIREY GAMP
Nee. GA M P:
BY
CHARLES: DICKENS.
AS CONDENSED BY HIMSELF, FOR HIS
READINGS.
BOSTON:
Peboee eno D-H PsA RD.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM.
1879.
Gav’s Hi1Lt_, Higham sy RocHESTER, KENT,
Tenth October, 1867.
The edition bearing the imprint of Messrs. T1CcKNOR AND FIELDs is
the only correct and authorized edition of my READINGS.
CHARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts,
UnIversITY Press : WELCH, BiGELow, & Coa.,
CAMBRIDGE.
MRS. GAMP.
— oe
M* PECKSNIFF was in a hackney-cabriolet,
for Jonas Chuzzlewit had said, ‘‘Spare no
expense.”’” It should never be charged upon his
father’s son that he had grudged the money for his
father’s funeral.
Mr. Pecksniff had been to the undertaker, and
was now on his way to another officer in the train
of mourning, — a female functionary, a nurse, and
watcher, and performer of nameless offices about
the persons of the dead, — whom the undertaker
had recommended. Her name, as Mr. Pecksniff
gathered from a scrap of writing in his hand, was
Gamp ; her residence, in Kingsgate Street, High
Holborn. So Mr. Pecksniff, in a hackney-cab, was
rattling over Holborn’s stones, in quest of Mrs.
Gamp.
This lady lodged at a bird-fancier’s, next door
but one to the celebrated mutton-pie shop, and
directly opposite to the original cat’s-meat ware-
house. It was a little house, and this was the
more convenient; for Mrs. Gamp being, in her
4 MRS. GAMP.
highest walk of art, a monthly nurse, and lodging
in the first-floor front, was easily assailable at night
by pebbles, walking-sticks, and fragments of tobac-
co-pipe, — all much more efficacious than the
street-door knocker; which was so ingeniously
constructed as to wake the street with ease, with-
out making the smallest impression on the premises
to which it was addressed. ~
It chanced on this particular occasion that Mrs.
Gamp had been up all the previous night. It
chanced that Mrs. Gamp had not been regularly
engaged, but had been called in at a crisis, in con-
sequence of her great repute, to assist another
professional lady with her advice ; and it thus hap-
pened that, all points of interest in the case being
over, Mrs. Gamp had come home again to the
bird-fancier’s, and gone to bed. So, when Mr.
Pecksniff drove up in the hackney-cab, Mrs. Gamp’s
curtains were drawn close, and Mrs. Gamp was
fast asleep behind them.
Mr. Pecksniff, in the innocence of his heart,
applied himself to the knocker; but, at the first
double-knock, every window in the street became
alive with female heads; and before he could
repeat it, whole troops of married ladies came
flocking round the steps, all crying out with one
accord, and with uncommon interest, ‘‘ Knock at
the winder, sir, knock at the winder. Lord bless
you, don’t lose no more time than you can help,
—knock at the winder !”’
MRS. GAMP. 5
Borrowing the driver’s whip for the purpose, Mr.
Pecksniff soon made a commotion among the first-
floor flower-pots, and roused Mrs. Gamp, whose
voice — to the great satisfaction of the matrons
— was heard to say} ‘I’m coming.”
‘‘He’s as pale as a muffin,’ said one lady, in
allusion to Mr. Pecksniff.
“So he ought to be, if he ’s the feelings of a
man,”’ observed another.
A third lady said she wished he.had chosen any
other time for fetching Mrs. Gamp, but: it always
happened so with her.
It gave Mr. Pecksniff much uneasiness to, infer,
from these remarks, that he was supposed to have
come to Mrs. Gamp. upon an errand touching,
not the. close of life, but the other end. Mrs.
Gamp herself was under the same impression, for,
throwing open the window, she cried behind the
curtains, as she hastily dressed herself :
‘Ts it Mrs. Perkins ?,”’
‘‘No!” returned Mr. Pecksniff, sharply, ‘‘ noth-
ing of the sort.”
‘What, Mr. Whilks! Don’t say it’s you, Mr.
Whilks, and that poor creetur Mrs. Whilks with
not even a pincushion ready. Don’t say it’s you,
Mr. Whilks! ” |
“It isn’t Mr. Whilks. I don’t know the man.
Nothing of the kind. A gentleman is dead ; and)
some person being wanted in the house, you haye.
been recommended by Mr. Mould the undertaker,
6 MRS. GAMP.
You are also wanted to relieve Mrs. Prig, the day-
nurse in attendance on the book-keeper of the de-
ceased, — one Mr. Chuffey, —— whose grief seems to
have affected his mind.”’
As she was by this time in a condition to appear,
Mrs. Gamp, who had a face for all occasions, looked
out of the window with her mourning countenance,
and said she would be down directly.
But the matrons took it very ill that Mr. Peck-
sniff’s mission was of so unimportant a kind; and
the lady number three rated him in good round
terms, signifying that she would be glad to know
what he meant by terrifying delicate females ‘‘ with
his corpses,’’ and giving it as her opinion that he
was ugly enough to know better.
The other ladies were not behindhand in express-
ing similar sentiments ; and the children, of whom
some scores had now collected, hooted Mr. Peck-
sniff. So, when Mrs. Gamp appeared, the unoffend-
ing gentleman was glad to hustle her with very
little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive off,
overwhelmed with popular execration.
Mrs. Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair
of pattens, and a species of gig umbrella; the
latter article in color like a faded leaf, except
where a circular patch of a lively blue had been
let in at the top. She was much flurried by the
haste she had made, and labored under the most
erroneous views of cabriolets, which she appeared to
confound with mail-coaches or stage-wagons, inso-
MRS. GAMP. e
much that she was constantly endeavoring for the
first half-mile to force her luggage through the little
front window, and clamoring to the driver to ‘ put
it in the boot.’? When she was disabused of this idea,
her whole being resolved itself into an absorbing
anxiety about her pattens, with which she played in-
numerable games at quoits on Mr. Pecksnifi’s legs.
It was not until they were close upon the house of
mourning that she had enough composure to ob-
serve :—
‘‘ And so the gentleman ’s dead, sir! Ah! The
more ’s the pity,’?—she didn’t even know his
name. ‘‘ But it’s what we must all come to. It’s
as certain as being born, except that we can’t make
our calculations as exact. Ah! Poor dear!’’
She was a fat old woman, this Mrs. Gamp, with
a husky voice and a moist eye. 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 rusty black gown, rather the worse for
snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to correspond. The
face of Mrs. Gamp — the nose in particular — was
somewhat red and swollen, and it was difficult to
enjoy her society without becoming conscious of a
smell of spirts. |
“Ah!” repeated Mrs. Gamp, for that was al-
ways a safe sentiment in cases of mourning, —“ah,
dear! When Gamp was summonsed to his long
home, and I see him a lying in the hospital with a
penny-piece on each eye, and his wooden leg under
8 MRS. GAMP.
his left arm, I thought I should have fainted away.
But I bore up ”
If certain whispers current in the Kingsgate
Street circles had any truth in them, Mrs. Gamp
had indeed borne up surprisingly, and had exerted
such uncommon fortitude as to dispose of Mr,
Gamp’s remains for the benefit of science.
‘“You have become indifferent since then, I sup-
pose? Use is second nature, Mrs. Gamp.”
‘“‘ You may well say second natur, sir. One’s first
ways is to find sich things a trial to the feelings,
and such is one’s lasting custom. If it wasn’t for
the nerve a little sip of liquor gives me (which I
was never able to do more than taste it), I never
could go through with what I sometimes has to do.
‘Mrs. Harris,’ I says, at the wery last case as ever I
acted in, which it was but a young person, —‘ Mrs.
Harris,’ I says, ‘leave the bottle on the chimley-
piece, and don’t ask me to take none, but let me
put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then
I will do what I am engaged to do, according to
the best of my ability.’ ‘Mrs. Gamp,’ she says, in
answer, ‘if ever there was a sober creetur to be got
at eighteen-pence a day for working people, and
three and six for gentlefolks, — night watching be-
ing a extra charge — you are that inwallable per:
son.’ ‘Mrs. Harris,’ I says to her, ‘don’t name
the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my fellow-
creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich
is the love I bears ’em.’ ”’
MRS. GAMP. 9
At this point, she was fain to stop for breath.
And advantage may be taken of the circumstance,
to state that a fearful mystery surrounded this lady
of the name of Harris, whom no one in the circle
of Mrs. Gamp’s acquaintance had ever seen; nei-
ther did any human being know her place of resi-
dence. There were conflicting rumors on the sub-
ject; but the prevalent opinion was that she was a
phantom of Mrs. Gamp’s brain, created for the pur-
pose of holding complimentary dialogues with her
on all manner of subjects.
‘The bottle shall be duly placed on the chim-
ney-piece, Mrs. Gamp, and you shall put your lips
to it at your own convenience.”’ 3
“Thank you, sir. Which it is a thing as hardly
ever occurs with me, unless when I am indispoged,
and find my half a pint o’ porter settling heavy on
the chest. Mrs. Harris often and often says to me,
‘Sairey Gamp,’ she says, ‘ you raly do amaze me! ’
‘Mrs. Harris,’ I says to her, ‘why so? Give it a
name, I beg!’ ‘Telling the truth then, ma’am,’
says Mrs. Harris, ‘and shaming him as shall be
nameless betwixt you and me, never did I think,
till I know’d you, as any woman could sick-nurse
and monthly likeways, on the little that you takes |
to drink.’ ‘Mrs. Harris,’ I says to her, ‘ none on
us knows what we can do till we tries; and wunst
I thought so, too. But now,’ I says, ‘my halfa pint
of porter fully satisfies; perwisin’, Mrs. Harris, that
it is brought reg’lar, and draw’d mild.’ ”’
10 MRS. GAMP.
The conclusion of this affecting narrative brought
them to the house. In the passage they encoun-
tered Mr. Mould, the undertaker, a little elderly
gentleman, bald, and in a suit of black; with a
rote-book in his hand, and a face in which a queer
attempt at melancholy was at odds with a smirk of
satisfaction.
‘Well, Mrs. Gamp, and howare you, Mrs. Gamp?”’
‘‘ Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’’
“You ‘ll be very particular here, Mrs. Gamp.
This is not a common case, Mrs. Gamp. Let
everything be very nice and comfortable, Mrs.
Gamp, if you please.’
“It shall be so, sir; you knows me of old, I
hope,‘and so does Mrs. Mould, your ansome pard-
ner, sir; and so does the two sweet young ladies,
your darters ; although the blessing of a daughter
was deniged me, which, if we had had one, Gamp
would certainly have drunk its little shoes right off
its feet, as with our precious boy he did, and _ater-
wards send the child a errand, to sell his wooden
leg for any liquor it would fetch as matches in the
rough ; which was truly done beyond his years, for
ev'ry individgle penny that child lost at tossing for
kidney-pies, and come home aterwards quite bold,
to break the news, and offering to drown him-
self if sech would be a satisfaction to his parents.
But wery different is them two sweet young
ladies o’ yourn, Mister Mould, as I know’d afore
a tooth in their pretty heads was cut, and have
MRS. GAMP. ay
many a time seen—ah! the dear creeturs!—a
playing at berryin’s down in the shop, and a follerin’
the order-book to its long home in the iron safe.
Young ladies with such faces as your darters
thinks of something else besides berryin’s; don’t
they, sir? Thinks o’ marryin’s; don’t they,
Sirint
‘IT ’m sure I don’t know, Mrs. Gamp. Very
shrewd woman, Mr. Pecksniff, sir. Woman whose
intellect is immensely superior to her station in
life; sort of woman one would really almost feel
disposed to bury for nothing, and do it neatly,
too. Mr. Pecksniff, sir. This is one of the most
impressive cases, sir, that I have seen in the whole
course of my professional experience.”’
‘Indeed, Mr. Mould!”
“Such affectionate regret I never saw. There
is no limitation ; there is positively no limitation
in point of expense! I have orders, sir, in short,
to turn out something absolutely gorgeous.”
‘‘ My friend Mr. Jonas is an excellent man.’ -
‘‘ Well, I have seen a good deal of what is filial
in my time, sir, and of what is unfilial, too! It is
the lot of parties in my line, sir. We come into the
knowledge of those secrets. But anything so filial
as this— anything so honorable to human nature,
so calculated to reconcile all of us to the world we
live in — never yet came under my observation. It
only proves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by
12 MRS. GAMP.
the lamented poet, — buried at Stratford, — that
there is good in everything.”’
“It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr.
Mould.’’
““You are very kind, sir. And what a man the
late Mr. Chuzzlewit was, sir! Ah! what a man
he was. Mr. Pecksniff, sir, good morning! ”
Mr. Pecksniff returned the compliment; and
Mould was going away with a brisk smile, when
he remembered the occasion. Quickly becoming
depressed again, he sighed; looked into the crown
of his hat, as if for comfort; put it on without
finding any; and slowly departed. |
Mrs. Gamp and Mr. Pecksniff then ascended the
staircase ; and Mrs. Gamp, having been shown to
the chamber in which all that remained of old An-
thony Chuzzlewit lay covered up, with but one
loving heart, and that the heart of his old book-
keeper, to mourn it, left Mr. Pecksniff free to enter
the darkened room below in search of Mr. Jonas.
He found that example to bereaved sons, and
pattern in the eyes of all performers of funerals, so
subdued, that he could scarcely be heard to speak,
and only seen to walk across the room.
‘“‘ Pecksniff, you shall have the regulation of it
all, mind! You shall be able to tell anybody who
talks about it, that everything was correctly and
freely done. There isn’t any one you’d like to
ask to the funeral, is there ?”’
‘No, Mr. Jonas, I think not.”
MRS. GAMP. 13
‘“‘ Because if there is, you know, ask him. We
don’t want to make a secret of it.
‘‘No; Iam not the less obliged to you on that
account, Mr. Jonas, for your liberal hospitality ;
but there really is no one.”
‘‘Very well; then you, and I, and old Chuffey,
and the doctor, will be just a coachful. We ’ll
have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he knows
what was the matter with my father, and that it
could n’t be helped.”’
They went up to the room where the old book-
keeper was, attended by Mrs. Betsey Prig. And
to them entered Mrs. Gamp soon afterwards, who
saluted Mrs. Prig as one of the sisterhood, and
‘“‘the best of creeturs.”’
The old book-keeper sat beside the bed, with his
hands folded before him, and his head bowed down;
until Mrs. Gamp took him by the arm, when he
meekly rose, saying : —
‘“My old master died at threescore and ten, —
ought and carry seven. Some men are so strong
that they live to fourscore — four times ought ’s an
ought, four times two’s an eight —eighty. Oh!
why — why — why — did n’t he live to four times
ought ’s an ought, and four times two’s an eight —
eighty? Why did he die before his poor old crazy
servant! Take him from me, and what remains? I
loved him. He was good to me. I took him down
once, six boys, in the arithmetic class at school.
God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him
down!”
14 MRS. GAMP.
‘‘ Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Gamp, ‘“‘ you’rea
wearing old soul, and that’s the blessed truth.
You ought to know that you was born in a
wale, and that you live in a wale, and that you
must take the consequences of sich a sitivation.
As a good friend of mine has frequent made remark
to me, Mr. Jonage Chuzzlewit, which her name,
sir, —I will not deceive you, —is Harris, — Mrs.
Harris through the square and up the steps a turnin’
round by the tobacker shop, —and which she said
it the last Monday evening as ever dawned upon
this Pilgrim’s Progress of a mortal wale,-‘ O Sairey,
Sairey, little do we know wot lays afore us!’ ‘Mrs.
Harris, ma’am,’ I says, ‘not much, it’s true, but
more than you suppoge. Our calcilations, ma’am,’
I says, ‘respectin’ wot the number of a family
will be, comes most times within one, and oftener
than you would suppoge, exact.’ ‘ Sairey,’ says
Mrs. Harris, in a awful way, ‘tell me wot is my
individgle number.’ ‘No, Mrs. Harris,’ I says to
her, ‘ex-cuge me, if you please. My own family,’ I
says, ‘ has fallen out of three-pair backs, and has had
damp doorsteps settled on their lungs, and one was
turned up smilin’ in a bedstead unbeknown. There-
fore, ma’am,’ I says, ‘ seek not to protigipate, but
take ’em as they come and as they go. Mine,’ I
says to her, — ‘mine is all gone, my dear young
chick. And as to husbands, there’s a wooden leg
gone likewise home to its account, which, in its con-
stancy of walking into public-’ouses, and never com-
MRS. GAMP. 15
ing out again till fetched by force, was quite as weak
as flesh, if not weaker.’ ”’
Mrs. Gamp, left to the live part of her task by
Mr. Pecksniff and Jonas, now formally relieved
Mrs. Prig for the night. That interesting lady
had a gruff voice and. a beard, and straightway
got her bonnet and shawl on.
‘““Anythink to tell afore you goes, Betsey, my
dear?”’
‘«The pickled salmon in this house is delicious.
I can partickler recommend it. The drinks is
all good. His physic and them things is on the
drawers and mankleshelf. He took his last slime
draught atseven. The easy-chair ain’t soft enough.
You ‘Il want his. piller.’’
Mrs. Gamp thanked Mrs. Prig for these friendly
hints, and gave her good night. She then com-
posed the patient for sleep, — on his rising in bed
and rocking himself to and fro with a moan, — by
screwing her hand into the nape of his neck, ad-
ministering a dozen or two. of hearty shakes, and
saying, ‘‘ Bother the old wictim, what a worriting
wexagious creetur it is! ”’
She then entered on her official duties, in manner
following: firstly, she put on a yellow-white night-
cap of prodigious size, in shape resembling a cab-
bage: having previously divested herself of a row of
bald old curls, which could scarcely be called false,
they were so innocent of anything approaching to
deception; secondly, and lastly, she summoned
16 MRS. GAMP.
the housemaid, to whom she delivered. this official
charge, in tones expressive of faintness : —
“| think, young woman, as I could peck a little
bit o’ pickled salmon, with a little sprig o’ fennel,
and a sprinkling o’ white pepper. I takes new
bread, my dear, with jest a little pat o’ fredge but-
ter and amossel o’ cheese. With respect to ale,
if they draws the Brighton old tipper at any ’ouse
nigh here, I takes that ale at night, my love ; not as
I cares for it myself, but on accounts of its being
considered wakeful by the doctors; and whatever
you do, young woman, don’t bring me more than a
shilling’s worth of gin-and-water, warm, when I
rings the bell a second, time; for that is always my
allowange, and I never takes a drop beyond. In
case there should be sich a thing as a cowcumber —
in the ’ouse, I’m rather partial to.’em, though I am
but a poor woman. Rich folks may ride. on camels,
but it ain’t so easy for them to see out of a needle’s
eye. That is my comfort, and I hopes I knows it.”
Mrs. Gamp’s supper and drink being brought
and done full justice to, she administered the pa-
tient’s medicine by the simple process of clutch-
ing his windpipe to make him gasp, and imme-
diately pouring it down his throat.
“IT a’most forgot your piller, I declare!’’ she
said, drawing itaway. ‘There! Now you’re as
comfortable as you need be, I’m sure! and I’m a
going to be, comfortable too.”’
All her arrangements made, she lighted the rush-
MRS. GAMP. 17
light, coiled herself up on her couch, and fell
asleep.
Ghostly and dark the room became, and full of
shadows. The noises in the streets were hushed,
the house was quiet, the dead of night was coffined
in the silent city. When Mrs. Gamp awoke, she
found that the busy day was broad awake too.
Mrs. Prig relieved punctually, having passed a
good night at another patient’s. But Mrs. Prig
relieved in an ill temper.
The best among us have their failings, and it
must be conceded of Mrs. Prig, that if there were a
blemish in the goodness of her disposition, it was a
habit she had of not bestowing all its sharp and
acid properties upon her patients (as a thoroughly
amiable woman would have done), but of keeping
a considerable remainder for the service of her
friends. She looked offensively at Mrs. Gamp,
and winked hereye. Mrs. Gamp felt it necessary
that Mrs. Prig should know her place, and be made
sensible of her exact station in society. So she
began a remonstrance with: —
‘Mrs. Harris, Betsey —”’
‘“‘ Bother Mrs. Harris! ”’
Mrs. Gamp looked at Betsey with amazement,
incredulity, and indignation. Mrs. Prig, winking
her eye tighter, folded her arms and uttered these
tremendous words : —
‘“‘T don’t believe there ’s no sich a person!”
With these expressions, she snapped her fingers
2
18 MRS. GAMP.
once, twice, thrice, each time nearer to the face of
Mrs. Gamp, and then turned away as one who felt
that there was now a gulf between them which
nothing could ever bridge aczoss.
Ure ay
n
3 0112 07842708