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DICKENS' 
STORIES 

ABOUT 

CHILDREN 


vv 


EVERY  CHILD  CAN  READ 


EDITED  BY 

SSE  LYMAM 


OT 


«iiTBmwrniMrrn«!irittrJncgaiwHw  wirw«JLiiii*u>-*  tma 


Kti, 


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BOSTON 
PUBLIC 
UBIV^IY 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


DicKENS'  Stories 

ABOUT 

Children 


^«  aav^ 


EVERY  CHILD  CAN  READ 


EDITED  BY 

REV.  JESSP:  LYMAN  HURLBUT.  D.D. 


ILLUSTRATED 


THE  JOHN  C  WINSTON  CO. 

A-v  PHILADELPHIA  ---A 


,' ,., 


P^3 

,  [)S5  Dick- 


Copyrioht,  1909,  By 
The   John    C.   Winston    Co. 


PREFACE. 
To  THE  Young  Reader: 

Charles  Dickens  was' one  of  the  greatest  among 
the  many  story-writers  of  "the  Victorian  age;" 
that  is,  the  middle  and  latter  part  of  the  Nine- 
teenth  Century,    when  Victoria    was    Queen    of 
Great  Britain.     Perhaps  he  was  the  greatest  of 
them  all  for  now,  a  generation  after  he  passed 
away,  more  people  read  the  stories  of  Dickens 
than  those  by  any  other  author  of  that  period. 
In  those  wonderful  writings  are  found  many  pic- 
tures of  child-life  connected  with  the  plan  of  the 
novels  or  stories.     These  chiM-stories  have  been 
taken  out  of  their  connections  and  are  told  by 
themselves  in  this  volume.     By  and  by  you  will 
read    for   yourselves,    "The    Christmas    Carol," 
**The  Chimes,"  "David  Copperfield,"  "The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop,"  and  the  other  great  books  by 
that  fascinating  writer,  who    saw  people    wlioni 
nobody  else  ever  saw,  and  made  them  real.     When 

(3) 


4  PREFACE 

you  read  those  books  you  will  meet  again  these 
charming  children,  and  will  remember  them  as 
the  friends  of  your  childhood. 

Jesse  L.  Hurlbut. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGH 

Trotty  Veck  and  Meg.     From  ''The  Chimes'' 9 

Tiny  Tim.     From  "Christmas  Carol" 24 

The  Runaway  Couple.     From  ''The  Holly-Tree  Inn". .  34 

Little  Dorrit.     From  "Little  Dorrit" 49 

The   Toy-Maker   and  His   Blind  Daughter.     From 

"Cricket  on  the  Hearth" 68 

Little  Nell.     From  "The  Old  Curiosity  Shop" 86 

Little  David  Copperfield.     From  "David  Copper-field"    123 

Jenny  Wren.     From  "Our  Mutual  Friend" 178 

Pip's  Adventure.     From  "Great  Expectations" 185 

Todgers' 196 

Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness 219 

Mr.  Wardle's  Servant  Joe 233 

The  Brave  and  Honest  Boy,  Oliver  Twist 248 


(S) 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Charles  Dickens Frontispiece 

PAGB 

*'They  Broke  in  Like  a  Grace,  My  Dear." 13 

"Mr.  Clennam  Followed  Her  Home." 65 

Little  Nell  and  Her  Grandfather 86 

David  CoppERFiELD  AND  Little  Em'ly ,»    131 

Seated  on  the  Crystal  Carpet  Were  Two  Girls  ...    179 

"Keep    Still,    You   Little   Imp,    or   I'll  Cut  Your 

Throat." 185 

"Mr.  Tupman,  We  are  Observed!" 240 


(7) 


TROTTY  VECK 
AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  MEG. 

44^  I  ^ROTTY"  seems  a  strange  name  for  an 
I  old  man,  but  it  was  given  to  Toby 
Veck  because  of  his  always  going  at 
a  trot  to  do  his  errands ;  for  he  was  a  ticket  porter 
or  messenger  and  his  office  was  to  take  letters  and 
messages  for  people  who  were  in  too  great  a  hurry 
to  send  them  by  post,  which  in  those  days  was 
neither  so  cheap  nor  so  quick  as  it  is  now.  He 
did  not  earn  very  much,  and  had  to  be  out  in 
all  weathers  and  all  day  long.  But  Toby  was  of 
a  cheerful  disposition,  and  looked  on  the  bright 
side  of  ever3rthing,  and  was  grateful  for  any  small 
mercies  that  came  in  his  way;  and  so  was  hap- 
pier than  many  people  who  never  knew  what  it 
is  to  be  hungry  or  in  want  of  comforts.  His 
greatest  joy  was  his  dear,  bright,  pretty  daughter 
Meg,  who  loved  him  dearly. 

One  cold  day,  near  the  end  of  the  year,  Toby  had 
been  waiting  a  long  time  for  a  job,  trotting  up  and 
down  in  his  usual  place  before  the  church,  and 

(9) 


lo  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

trying  hard  to  keep  himself  warm,  when  the  bells 
chimed  twelve  o'clock,  which  made  Toby  think  of 
dinner. 

"There's  nothing,"  he  remarked,  carefully 
feeling  his  nose  to  make  sure  it  was  still  there, 
"more  regular  in  coming  round  than  dinner-time, 
and  nothing  less  regular  in  coming  round  than  din- 
ner. That's  the  great  difference  between  'em." 
He  went  on  talking  to  himself,  trotting  up  and 
down,  and  never  noticing  who  was  coming  near 
to  him. 

"Why,  father,  father,"  said  a  pleasant  voice, 
and  Toby  turned  to  find  his  daughter's  sweet, 
bright  eyes  close  to  his. 

"Why,  pet,"  said  he,  kissing  her  and  squeezing 
her  blooming  face  between  his  hands,  "what's 
to-do?     I  didn't  expect  you  to-day,  Meg." 

"Neither  did  I  expect  to  come^  father,"  said 
Meg,  nodding  and  smiling.  "But  here  I  am! 
And  not  alone,  not  alone!" 

"Why  you  don't  mean  to  say,"  observed  Trotty, 
looking  curiously  at  the  covered  basket  she 
carried,  "that  you " 

"Smell  it,  father  dear."  said  Meg.  "Only 
smell  it!" 

Trotty  was  going  to  lift  up  the  cover  at  once, 
in  a  great  hurry,  when  she  gaily  interposed  her  hand. 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG  ii 

**No,  no,  no,"  said  Meg,  with  the  glee  of  a  child. 
"Lengthen  it  out  a  little.  Let  me  just  lift  up  the 
comer;  just  a  lit-tle,  ti-ny  cor-ner,  you  know," 
said  Meg,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word  with  the 
utmost  gentleness,  and  speaking  very  softly,  as 
if  she  were  afraid  of  being  overheard  by  some- 
thing inside  the  basket.  "There,  now;  what's 
that?" 

Toby  took  the  shortest  possible  sniff  at  the  edge 
of  the  basket,  and  cried  out  in  rapture : 

"Why,  it's  hot,"  he  said. 

But  to  Meg's  great  delight  he  could  not  guess 
what  it  was  that  smelt  so  good. 

"Polonies?  Trotters?  Liver?  Pigs'  feet? 
Sausages?"  he  tried  one  after  the  other.  At  last 
he  exclaimed  in  triumph.  "Why,  what  am  I 
a-thinking  of?     It's  tripe." 

And  it  was. 

"And  so,"  said  Meg,  "I'll  lay  the  cloth  at  once, 
father;  for  I  have  brought  the  tripe  in  a  basin,  and 
tied  the  basin  up  in  a  pocket-handkerchief;  and 
if  I  like  to  be  proud  for  once,  and  spread  that  for 
a  cloth,  and  call  it  a  cloth,  there's  nobody  to  pre- 
vent me,  is  there  father?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  my  dear, "  said  Toby ;  "but 
they're  always  a-bringing  up  some  new  law  or 
other." 


12  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"And  according  to  what  I  was  reading  you  in 
the  paper  the  other  day,  father,  what  the  judge 
said,  you  know,  we  poor  people  are  supposed  to 
know  them  all.  Ha,  ha!  What  a  mistake!  My 
goodness  me,  how  clever  they  think  us!'' 

"Yes,  my  dear,''  cried  Trotty;  "and  they'd  be 
A^ery  fond  of  any  one  of  us  that  did  know  'em  all. 
He'd  grow  fat  upon  the  work  he'd  get,  that  man, 
and  be  popular  with  the  gentlefolks  in  his  neigh- 
borhood.    Very  much  so!" 

"He'd  eat  his  dinner  with  an  appetite,  whoever 
he  was,  if  it  smelt  like  this,"  said  Meg  cheerfully. 
"Make  haste,  for  there's  a  hot  potato  besides,  and 
half  a  pint  of  fresh-drawn  beer  in  a  bottle.  Where 
will  you  dine,  father— on  the  post  or  on  the  steps? 
Dear,  dear,  how  grand  we  are!  Two  places  to 
choose  from!" 

^^  "The  steps  to-day,  my  pet,"  said  Trotty. 
"Steps  in  dry  weather,  post  in  wet.  There's 
greater  conveniency  in  the  steps  at  all  times, 
because  of  the  sitting  down ;  but  they're  rheumatic 
in  the  damp." 

"Then,   here,"  said  Meg,   clapping  her  hands 

after  a  moment's  bustle;  "here  it  is  all  ready! 

And  beautiful  it  looks!  Come,   father.     Come!" 

And  just  as  Toby  was  about  to  sit  down,  to 

his  dinner  on  the  door-steps  of  a  big  house  close 


u 

o 


O 

H 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG  13 

by,  the  chimes  rang  out  again,  and  Toby  took 
off  his  hat  and  said,  **Amen." 

*'Amen  to  the  bells,  father?" 

"They  broke  in  like  a  grace,  my  dear,"  said 
Trotty;  "they'd  say  a  good  one  if  they  could,  I'm 
sure.  Many's  the  kind  thing  they  say  to  me. 
How  often  have  I  heard  them  bells  say,  'Toby 
Veck,  keep  a  good  heart,  Toby!'  A  milHon 
times?     More!" 

"Well,  I  never!"  cried  Meg. 

"When  things  is  very  bad,  then  it's  'Toby 
Veck,  Toby  Veck,  job  coming  soon,  Toby!'  " 

"And  it  comes — at  last,  father,"  said  Meg, 
with  a  touch  of  sadness  in  her  pleasant  voice. 

"Always,"   answered  Toby.     "Never  fails." 

While  this  discourse  was  holding,  Trotty  made 
no  pause  in  his  attack  upon  the  savory  m.eat 
before  him,  but  cut  and  ate,  and  cut  and  drank, 
and  cut  and  chewed,  and  dodged  about  from  tripe 
to  hot  potato,  and  from  hot  potato  back  again  to 
tripe,  with  an  unfailing  relish.  But  happening 
now  to  look  all  round  the  street — in  case  an3^body 
should  be  beckoning  from  any  door  or  window  for 
a  porter — his  eyes,  in  coming  back  again,  saw 
Meg  sitting  opposite  him,  with  her  arms  folded, 
and  only  busy  in  watching  his  dinner  with  a  smile 
of  happiness. 


14  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Why,  Lord  forgive  me!"  said  Trotty,  dropping 
his  knife  and  fork.  ''My  dove!  Meg!  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  what  a  beast  I  was?" 

"Father!" 

"Sitting  here,"  said  Trotty,  in  a  sorrowful 
manner,  "cramming,  and  stuffing,  and  gorging 
myself,  and  you  before  me  there,  never  so  much 
as  breaking  your  precious  fast,  nor  wanting  to, 
when " 

"But  I  have  broken  it,  father,"  interposed  his 
daughter,  laughing,  "all  to  bits.  I  have  had  my 
dinner." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Trotty.  "Two  dinners  in  one 
day!  It  ain't  possible!  You  might  as  well  tell 
me  that  two  New  Year's  days  will  come  together, 
or  that  I  have  had  a  gold  head  all  my  life,  and 
never  changed  it." 

"I  have  had  my  dinner,  father,  for  all  that," 
said  Meg,  coming  nearer  to  him.  "And  if  you 
will  go  on  with  yours,  I'll  tell  you  how  and  where, 
and  how  your  dinner  came  to  be  brought  and — 
and  something  else  besides." 

Toby  still  appeared  not  to  believe  her;  but  she 
looked  into  his  face  with  her  clear  eyes,  and, 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  motioned  him 
to  go  on  while  the  meat  was  hot.  So  Trotty 
took  up  his  knife  and  fork  again  and  went  to  work, 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG  15 

but  much  more  slowly  than  before,  and  shaking 
his  head,  as  if  he  were  not  at  all  pleased  with 
himself. 

"!'  had  my  dinner,  father,"  said  Meg,  after  a 
little  hesitation,  "with — with  Richard.  His 
dinner-time  was  early;  and  as  he  brought  his 
dinner  with  him  when  he  came  to  see  me,  we — 
we  had  it  together,  father." 

Trotty  took  a  little  beer  and  smacked  his  lips. 
Then  he  said  "Oh!"  because  she  waited. 

"And  Richard  says,  father — "  Meg  resumed, 
then  stopped. 

"What  does  Richard  say,  Meg?"  asked  Toby. 

"Richard   says,   father — "   Another  stoppage. 

"Richard's  a  long  time  saying  it,"  said  Toby. 

"He  says,  then,  father,"  Meg  continued,  lifting 
up  her  eyes  at  last,  and  speaking  in  a  tremble, 
but  quite  plainly,  "another  year  is  nearly  gone, 
and  where  is  the  use  of  waiting  on  from  year  to 
year,  when  it  is  so  unlikely  we  shall  ever  be  better 
off  than  we  are  now?  He  says  we  are  poor  now, 
father,  and  we  shall  be  poor  then;  but  we  are 
young  now,  and  years  will  make  us  old  before  we 
know  it.  He  says  that  if  we  wait,  people  as  poor 
as  we  are,  until  we  see  our  way  quite  clearly,  the 
way  will  be  a  narrow  one  indeed — the  common 
way — the  grave,  father." 


i6  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

A  bolder  man  than  Trotty  Veck  must  needs 
have  drawn  upon  his  boldness  largely  to  deny  it. 
Trotty  held  his  peace. 

''And  how  hard,  father,  to  grow  old  and  die, 
and  think  we  might  have  cheered  and  helped  each 
other!  How  hard  in  all  our  lives  to  love  each 
other,  and  to  grieve,  apart,  to  see  each  other 
working,  changing,  growing  old  and  gray.  Even 
if  I  got  the  better  of  it,  and  forgot  him  (which  I 
never  could),  oh,  father,  dear,  how  hard  to  have 
a  heart  so  full  as  mine  is  now,  and  live  to  have  it 
slowly  drained  out  every  drop,  without  remember- 
ing one  happy  moment  of  a  woman's  life  to  stay 
behind  and  comfort  me  and  make  me  better!" 

Trotty  sat  quite  still.  Meg  dried  her  eyes, 
and  said  more  gaily — that  is  to  say,  with  here  a 
laugh  and  there  a  sob,  and  here  a  laugh  and  sob 
together : 

"So  Richard  says,  father,  as  his  work  was  yes- 
terday made  certain  for  some  time  to  come,  and 
as  I  love  him  and  have  loved  him  full  three  years 
— ah,  longer  than  that,  if  he  knew  it! — will  I 
marry  him  on  New  Year's  Day?" 

Just  then  Richard  himself  came  up  to  persuade 
Toby  to  agree  to  their  plan;  and,  almost  at  the 
same  moment,  a  footman  came  out  of  the  house 
and  ordered  them  all  off  the  steps,   and  some 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG  17 

gentlemen  came  out  who  called  up  Trotty,  and 
asked  a  great  many  questions,  and  found  a  good 
deal  of  fault,  telling  Richard  he  was  very  foolish 
to  want  to  get  married,  which  made  Toby  feel 
very  unhappy,  and  Richard  very  angry.  So  the 
lovers  went  off  together  sadly;  Richard  looking 
gloomy  and  downcast,  and  Meg  in  tears.  Toby, 
who  had  a  letter  given  him  to  carry,  and  a  six- 
pence, trotted  off  in  rather  low  spirits  to  a  very 
grand  house,  where  he  was  told  to  take  the  letter 
in  to  the  gentleman.  While  he  was  waiting,  he 
heard  the  letter  read.  It  was  from  Alderman 
Cute,  to  tell  Sir  Joseph  Bowley  that  one  of  his 
tenants  named  Will  Fern,  who  had  come  to  Lon- 
don to  try  to  get  work,  and  been  brought  before 
him  charged  with  sleeping  in  a  shed,  and  asking 
if  Sir  Joseph  wished  him  to  be  dealt  kindly  with 
or  otherwise.  To  Toby's  great  disappointment, 
for  Sir  Joseph  had  talked  a  great  deal  about  being 
a  friend  to  the  poor,  the  answer  was  given  that 
Will  Fern  might  be  sent  to  prison  as  a  vagabond, 
and  made  an  example  of,  though  his  only  fault  was 
that  he  was  poor.  On  his  way  home,  Toby, 
thinking  sadly,  with  his  hat  pulled  down  low  on 
his  head,  ran  against  a  man  dressed  like  a  country- 
man, carrying  a  fair-haired  little  girl.  Toby 
enquired  anxiously  if  he  had  hurt  either  of  them. 


i8  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

The  man  answered  no,  and  seeing  Toby  had  a  kind 
face,  he  asked  him  the  way  to  Alderman  Cute's 
house. 

"It's  impossible,"  cried  Toby,  "that  your  name 
is  Will  Fern?" 

"That's  my  name,"  said  the  man. 

Thereupon  Toby  told  him  what  he  had  just 
heard,  and  said,  "Don't  go  there." 

Poor  Will  told  him  how  he  could  not  make  a 
living  in  the  country,  and  had  come  to  London 
with  his  orphan  niece  to  try  to  find  a  friend  of 
her  mother's  and  to  endeavor  to  get  some  work, 
and,  wishing  Toby  a  happy  New  Year,  was  about 
to  trudge  wearily  off  again,  when  Trotty  caught 
his  hand,  saying — 

"Stay!  The  New  Year  never  can  be  happy 
to  me  if  I  see  the  child  and  you  go  wandering 
aw^ay  without  a  shelter  for  your  heads.  Come 
home  with  me.  I'm  a  poor  man,  living  in  a  poor 
place;  but  I  can  give  you  lodging  for  one  night, 
and  never  miss  it.  Come  home  with  me!  Here! 
I'll  take  her!"  cried  Trotty,  Hfting  up  the  child. 
"A  pretty  one!  I'd  carry  twenty  times  her  weight 
and  never  know  I'd  got  it.  Tell  me  if  I  go  too  quick 
for  you.  I'm  very  fast.  I  always  was!"  Trotty 
said  this,  taking  about  six  of  his  trotting  paces  to 
one  stride  of  his  tired  companion,  and  with  his 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG  19 

thin  legs  quivering  again  beneath  the  load  he 
bore. 

"Why,  she's  as  light,"  said  Trotty,  trotting  in 
his  speech  as  well  as  in  his  gait — for  he  couldn't 
bear  to  be  thanked,  and  dreaded  a  moment's 
pause — "as  light  as  a  feather.  Lighter  than  a 
peacock's  feather — a  great  deal  lighter.  Here  we 
are  and  here  we  go!"  And,  rushing  in,  he  set  the 
child  down  before  his  daughter.  The  little  girl 
gave  one  look  at  Meg's  sweet  face  and  ran  into  her 
arms  at  once,  while  Trotty  ran  round  the  room, 
saying,  "Here  we  are  and  here  we  go.  Here, 
Uncle  Will,  come  to  the  fire.  Meg,  my  precious 
darling,  where's  the  kettle?  Here  it  is  and  here 
it  goes,  and  it'll  bile  in  no  time  I" 

"Why,  father!"  said  Meg,  as  she  knelt  before 
the  child  and  pulled  off  her  wet  shoes,  "you're 
crazy  to-night,  I  think.  I  don't  know  what  the 
bells  would  say  to  that.  Poor  little  feet,  how  cold 
they  are!" 

"Oh,  they're  warmer  now!"  exclaimed  the  child. 
"They're  quite  warm  now!" 

"No,  no  no,"  said  Meg.  "We  haven't  rubbed 
'em  half  enough.  We're  so  busy.  And  when 
they're  done,  we'll  brush  out  the  damp  hair; 
and  when  that's  done,  we'll  bring  some  color  to 
the  poor  pale  face  with  fresh  water;   and  when 


20  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

that's  done,  we'll  be  so  gay  and  brisk  and 
happy!" 

The  child,  sobbing,  clasped  her  round  the  neck, 
saying,  "O  Meg,  O  dear  Meg!" 

"Good  gracious  me!"  said  Meg  presently, 
''father's  crazy.  He's  put  the  dear  child's  bonnet 
on  the  kettle,  and  hung  the  lid  behind  the  door!" 

Trotty  hastily  repaired  this  mistake,  and  went 
off  to  find  some  tea  and  a  rasher  of  bacon  he 
fancied '  'he  had  seen  lying  somewhere  on  the  stairs. ' ' 

He  soon  came  back  and  made  the  tea,  and 
before  long  they  were  all  enjoying  the  meal. 
Trotty  and  Meg  only  took  a  morsel  for  form's 
sake  (for  they  had  only  a  very  little,  not  enough 
for  all),  but  their  delight  was  in  seeing  their  vis- 
itors eat,  and  very  happy  they  were — though 
Trotty  had  noticed  that  Meg  was  sitting  by  the 
fire  in  tears  when  they  had  come  in,  and  he 
feared  her  marriage  had  been  broken  off. 

After  tea  Meg  took  Lilian  to  bed,  and  Toby 
showed  Will  Fern  where  he  was  to  sleep.  As  he 
came  back  past  Meg's  door  he  heard  the  child 
saying  her  prayers,  remembering  Meg's  name  and 
asking  for  his.  Then  he  went  to  ait  by  the  fire 
and  read  his  paper,  and  fell  asleep  to  have  a 
wonderful  dream,  so  terrible  and  sad,  that  it  was 
a  great  relief  when  he  woke. 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG  21 

"And  whatever  you  do,  father,"  said  Meg, 
"don't  eat  tripe  again  without  asking  some 
doctor  whether  it's  Hkely  to  agree  with  you; 
for  how  you  have  been  going  on!  Good  gracious!" 

She  was  working  with  her  needle  at  the  Httle 
table  by  the  fire,  dressing  her  simple  gown  with 
ribbons  for  her  wedding — -so  quietly  happy,  so 
blooming  and  youthful,  so  full  of  beautiful  promise 
that  he  uttered  a  great  cry  as  if  it  were  an  angel 
in  his  house,  then  flew  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms. 

But  he  caught  his  feet  in  the  newspaper,  which 
had  fallen  on  the  hearth,  and  somebody  came 
rushing  in  between  them. 

"No!"  cried  the  voice  of  this  same  somebody. 
A  generous  and  jolly  voice  it  was!  "Not  even 
you;  not  even  you.  The  first  kiss  of  Meg  in 
the  New  Year  is  mine — mine !  I  have  been  wait- 
ing outside  the  house  this  hour  to  hear  the  bells 
and  claim  it.  Meg,  my  precious  prize,  a  happy 
year!     A  life  of  happy  years,  my  darling  wife!" 

And  Richard  smothered  her  with, kisses. 

You  never  in  all  your  life  saw  anything  like 
Trotty  after  this,  I  don't  care  where  you  have 
lived  or  what  you  have  seen ;  you  never  in  your 
life  saw  anything  at  all  approaching  him!  He 
kept  running  up  to  Meg,  and  squeezing  her  fresh 
face  between  his  hands  and  kissing  it,  going  from 


22  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

her  backwards  not  to  lose  sight  of  it,  and  running 
■up  again  like  a  figure  in  a  magic  lantern;  and 
whatever  he  did,  he  was  constantly  sitting  him- 
self down  in  his  chair,  and  never  stopping  in  it  for 
one  single  moment,  being — that's  the  truth — 
beside  himself  with  joy. 

"And  to-morrow's  your  wedding-day,  my  pet!" 
cried  Trotty.     "Your  real,  happy  wedding-day!" 

"To-day!"  cried  Richard,  shaking  hands  with 
him.  "To-day.  The  chimes  are  ringing  in  the 
New  Year.     Hear  them!" 

They  were  ringing!  Bless  their  sturdy  hearts, 
they  were  ringing!  Great  bells  as  they  were — 
melodious,  deep-mouthed,  noble  bells,  cast  in  no 
common  metal,  made  by  no  common  founder — 
when  had  they  ever  chimed  like  that  before  ? 

Trotty  was  backing  off  to  that  wonderful  chair 
again,  when  the  child,  who  had  been  awakened 
by  the  noise,  came  running  in  half -dressed. 

"Why,  here  she  is!"  cried  Trotty,  catching  her 
up.  "Here's  little  Lilian!  Ha,  ha,  ha!.  Here 
we  are  and  here  we  go.  Oh,  here  we  are  and  here 
we  go  again!  And  here  we  are  and  here  we  go! 
And  Uncle  Will,  too!" 

Before  Will  Fern  could  make  the  least  reply,  a 
band  of  music  burst  into  the  room,  attended  by  a 
flock  of  neighbors,   screaming,   "A  Happy  New 


TROTTY  VECK  AND  MEG  23 

Year,  Meg!"  "A  happy  wedding!"  ''Many  of  *em!" 
and  other  fragmentary  good-wishes  of  that  sort. 
The  Drum  (who  was  a  private  friend  of  Trotty's) 
then  stepped  forward  and  said : 

'Trotty  Veck,  my  boy,  it's  got  about  that  your 
daughter  is  going  to  be  married  to-morrow. 
There  ain't  a  soul  that  knows  you  that  don't 
wish  you  well,  or  that  knows  her  and  don't  wish 
her  well.  Or  that  knows  you  both,  and  don't 
wish  you  both  all  the  happiness  the  New  Year 
can  bring.  And  here  we  are  to  play  it  in  and 
dance  it  in  accordingly." 

Then  Mrs.  Chickenstalker  came  in  (a  good- 
humored,  nice-looking  woman  who,  to  the  delight 
of  all,  turned  out  to  be  the  friend  of  Lilian's 
mother,  for  whom  Will  Fern  had  come  to  look), 
with  a  stone  pitcher  full  of  ''flip,"  to  wish  Meg 
joy,  and  then  the  music  struck  up,  and  Trotty, 
making  Meg  and  Richard  second  couple,  led  off 
Mrs.  Chickenstalker  down  the  dance,  and  danced 
it  in  a  step  unknown  before  or  since,  founded  on 
his  own  peculiar  trot. 


ll. 

TINY  TIM. 

IT  will  surprise  you  all  very  much  to  hear  that 
there  was  once  a  man  who  did  not  like  Christ- 
mas. In  fact,  he  had  been  heard  on  several 
occasions  to  use  the  word  humbug  with  regard  to 
it.  His  name  was  Scrooge,  and  he  was  a  hard, 
sour-tempered  man  of  business,  intent  only  on 
saving  and  making  money,  and  caring  nothing  for 
anyone.  He  paid  the  poor,  hard-working  clerk 
in  his  office  as  little  as  he  could  possibly  get  the 
work  done  for,  and  lived  on  as  little  as  possible 
himself,  alone,  in  two  dismal  rooms.  He  was 
never  merry  or  comfortable  or  happy,  and  he 
hated  other  people  to  be  so,  and  that  was  the  rea- 
son why  he  hated  Christmas,  because  people  will 
be  happy  at  Christmas,  you  know,  if  they  pos- 
sibly can,  and  like  to  have  a  little  money  to 
make  themselves  and  others  comfortable. 

Well,  it  was  Christmas  eve,  a  very  cold  and 
foggy  one,  and  Mr.  Scrooge,  having  given  his  poor 
clerk  permission  very  unwillingly  to  spend  Christ- 
mas day  at  home,  locked  up  his  office  and  went 
home  himself  in  a  very  bad  temper,  and  with  a 

(24) 


TINY  TIM  25 

cold  in  his  head.  After  having  taken  some  gruel 
as  he  sat  over  a  miserable  fire  in  his  dismal  room, 
he  got  into  bed,  and  had  some  wonderful  and 
disagreeable  dreams,  to  which  we  will  leave  him, 
whilst  we  see  how  Tiny  Tim,  the  son  of  his  poor 
clerk,   spent  Christmas  day. 

The  name  of  this  clerk  was  Bob  Cratchit.  He 
had  a  wife  and  five  other  children  besides  Tirfi, 
who  was  a  weak  and  delicate  little  cripple,  and  for 
this  reason  was  dearly  loved  by  his  father  and  the 
rest  of  the  family;  not  but  what  he  was  a  dear 
little  boy,  too,  gentle  and  patient  and  loving, 
with  a  sweet  face  of  his  own,  which  no  one  could 
help  looking  at. 

Whenever  he  could  spare  the  time,  it  was  Mr. 
Cratchit 's  delight  to  carry  his  little  boy  out  on  his 
shoulder  to  see  the  shops  and  the  people ;  and  to- 
day he  had  taken  him  to  church  for  the  first  time. 

"Whatever  has  got  your  precious  father  and 
your  brother  Tiny  Tim!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cratchit, 
"here's  dinner  all  ready  to  be  dished  up.  I've 
never  known  him  so  late  on  Christmas  day  before." 

''Here  he  is,  mother!"  cried  Belinda,  and  "here 
he  is!"  cried  the  other  children. 

In  came  little  Bob,  the  father,  with  at  least 
three  feet  of  comforter,  exclusive  of  the  fringe, 
hanging  down  before  him;  and  his  threadbare 


26  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

clothes  darned  up  and  brushed,  to  look  just  as 
well  as  possible ;  and  Tiny  Tim  upon  his  shoulder. 
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 
Crat chit ,  looking  round . 

"Not  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Crat  chit. 

"Not  coming!"  said  Bob,  with  a  sudden  drop- 
ping in  his  high  spirits;  for  he  had  been  Tim's 
blood  horse  all  the  way  from  church,  and  had 
come  home  rampant.  "Not  coming  upon  Christ- 
mas day!" 

Martha  didn't  like  to  see  him  disappointed,  if 
it  were  only  in  joke ;  so  she  came  out  sooner  than 
had  been  agreed  upon  from  behind  the  closet- 
door,  and  ran  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  kettle. 

"And  how  did  Tim  behave?"  asked  Mrs. 
Cratchit. 

"As  good  as  gold  and  better,"  replied  his  father. 
"I  think,  wife,  the  child  gets  thoughtful,  sitting  at 
home  so  much.  He  told  me,  coming  home,  that 
he  hoped  the  people  in  church  who  saw  he  was  a 
cripple,  would  be  pleased  to  remember  on  Christ- 
mas day  who  it  was  who  made  the  lame  to  walk." 


TINY  TIM  27 

"Bless  his  sweet  heart!"  said  the  mother  in  a 
trembhng  voice,  and  the  father's  voice  trembled, 
too,  as  he  remarked  that  "Tiny  Tim  was  growing 
strong  and  hearty  at  last." 

His  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the 
floor,  and  back  came  Tiny  Tim  before  another 
word  was  spoken,  led  by  his  brother  and  sister  to 
his  stool  beside  the  fire ;  while  Bob,  Master  Peter, 
and  the  two  young  Cratchits  (who  seemed  to  be 
everywhere  at  once)  went  to  fetch  the  goose,  with 
which  they  soon  returned  in  high  procession. 

Such  a  bustle  ensued  that  you  might  have 
thought  a  goose  the  rarest  of  all  birds ;  a  perfect 
marvel,  to  which  a  black  swan  was  a  matter  of 
course — and  in  truth  it  was  something  very  like  it 
in  that  house.  Mrs.  Cratchit  made  the  gravy 
(ready  beforehand  in  a  little  saucepan)  hissing 
hot;  Master  Peter  mashed  the  potatoes  with 
tremendous  vigor;  Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up 
the  apple-sauce;  Martha  dusted  the  hot  plates; 
Bob  took  Tiny  Tim  beside  him  in  a  tiny  comer  at 
the  table ;  the  two  young  Cratchits  set  chairs  for 
everybody,  not  forgetting  themselves,  and,  mount- 
ing 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 


2S  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

succeeded  by  a  breathless  pause,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit, 
looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving-knife,  pre- 
pared 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  sufficient  dinner  for  the  whole  family;  indeed, 
as  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great  delight  (surveying 
one  small  atom  of  a  bone  upon  the  dish),  they 
hadn't  ate  it  all  at  that !  Yet  everyone  had  had 
enough,  and  the  youngest  Cratchits,  in  particular, 
were  steeped  in  sage  and  onions  to  the  eyebrows! 
But  now,  the  plates  being  changed  by  Miss 
Belinda,  Mrs.  Cratchit  left  the  room  alone — too 
nervous  to  bear  witnesses — to  take  up  the  pud- 
ding 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  meny 


TINY  TIxM  29 

with  the  goose — a  supposition  at  which  the  two 
young  Cratchits  became  livid!  All  sorts  of 
horrors  were  supposed. 

Halloo!  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  pastrycook's  next  door  to  each  other, 
with  a  laundress'  next  door  to  that!  That  was 
the  pudding!  In  half  a  minute  Mrs.  Cratchit 
entered — flushed,  but  smiling  proudly — with  the 
pudding  like  a  speckled  cannon-ball,  so  hard  and 
firm,  blazing  in  half  of  half-a-quartem  of  lighted 
brandy,  and  decorated  with  Christmas  holly 
stuck  into  the  top. 

Oh,  a  wonderful  pudding!  Bob  Cratchit  said, 
and  calmly  too,  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  greatest 
success  achieved  by  Mrs.  Cratchit  since  their 
marriage.  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  that,  now  the 
weight  was  off  her  mind,  she  would  confess  she 
had  her  doubts  about  the  quantity  of  flour. 
Everybody  had  something  to  say  about  it,  but 
nobody  said  or  thought  it  was  a  small  pudding  for 
a  large  family.  It  would  have  been  really  wicked 
to  do  so.  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. 


30  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

The  hot  stuff  in  the  jug  being  tasted,  and  con- 
sidered perfect,  apples  and  oranges  were  put  upon 
the  table,  and  a  shovel  full  of  chestnuts  on  the 
fire.  Then  all  the  Cratchit  family  drew  round 
the  hearth  in  what  Bob  Cratchit  called  a  circle, 
meaning  half  a  one ;  and  at  Bob  Cratchit 's  elbow 
stood  the  family  display  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  cracked 
noisily.     Then  Bob  proposed: 

''A  merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.  God 
bless  us!" 

Which  all  the  family  re-echoed. 

**God  bless  us  everyone!"  said  Tiny  Tim,  the 
last  of  all. 

Now  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Scrooge  had  some 
disagreeable  and  wonderful  dreams  on  Christmas 
eve,  and  so  he  had ;  and  in  one  of  them  he  dreamt 
that  a  Christmas  spirit  showed  him  his  clerk's 
home;  he  saw  them  all  gathered  round  the  fire, 
and  heard  them  drink  his  health,  and  Tiny  Tim's 
song,  and  he  took  special  note  of  Tiny  Tim  himself. 

How  Mr.  Scrooge  spent  Christmas  day  we  do  not 
know.     He  may  have  remained  in  bed,  having  a 


TINY  TIM  31 

cold,  but  on  Christmas  night  he  had  more  dreams, 
and  in  one  of  his  dreams  the  spirit  took  him  again 
to  his  clerk's  poor  home.  The  mother  was  doing 
some  needlework,  seated  by  the  table,  a  tear 
dropped  on  it  now  and  then,  and  she  said,  poor 
thing,  that  the  work,  which  was  black,  hurt  her 
eyes.  The  children  sat,  sad  and  silent,  about  the 
room,  except  Tiny  Tim,  who  was  not  there. 
Upstairs  the  father,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his 
hands,  sat  beside  a  little  bed,  on  which  lay  a 
tiny  figure,  white  and  still.  **My  little  child,  my 
pretty  little  child,"  he  sobbed,  as  the  tears  fell 
through  his  fingers  on  to  the  floor.  ''Tiny  Tim 
died  because  his  father  was  too  poor  to  give  him 
what  was  necessary  to  make  him  well;  you  kept 
him  poor;"  said  the  dream-spirit  to  Mr.  Scrooge. 
The  father  kissed  the  cold,  little  face  on  the  bed, 
and  went  downstairs,  where  the  sprays  of  holly 
still  remained  about  the  humble  room;  and  tak- 
ing his  hat,  went  out,  with  a  wistful  glance  at  the 
little  crutch  in  the  comer  as  he  shut  the  door. 
Mr.  Scrooge  saw  all  this,  and  many  more  things 
as  strange  and  sad,  the  spirit  took  care  of  that; 
but,  wonderful  to  relate,  he  woke  the  next  morn- 
ing feeling  a  different  man — feeling  as  he  had 
never  felt  in  his  life  before.  For  after  all,  3^ou 
know  that  what  he  had  seen  was  no  more  than  a 


32  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

dream;  he  knew  that  Tiny  Tim  was  not  dead, 
and  Scrooge  was  resolved  that  Tiny  Tim  should 
not  die  if  he  could  help  it. 

"Why,  I  am  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  as  happy 
as  an  angel,  and  as  merry  as  a  schoolboy,"  Scrooge 
said  to  himself  as  he  skipped  into  the  next  room 
to  breakfast  and  threw  on  all  the  coals  at  once, 
and  put  two  lumps  of  sugar  in  his  tea.  "I  hope 
everybody  had  a  merry  Christmas,  and  here's 
a  happy  New  Year  to  all  the  world." 

On  that  morning,  the  day  after  Christmas  poor 
Bob  Cratchit  crept  into  the  office  a  few  minutes 
late,  expecting  to  be  roundly  abused  and  scolded 
for  it,  but  no  such  thing;  his  master  was  there 
with  his  back  to  a  good  fire,  and  actually 
smiling,  and  he  shook  hands  with  his  clerk,  telling 
him  heartily  he  was  going  to  raise  his  salary  and 
asking  quite  affectionately  after  Tiny  Tim! 
'*And  mind  you  make  up  a  good  fire  in  your  room 
before  you  set  to  work.  Bob,"  he  said,  as  he  closed 
his  own  door. 

Bob  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes  and  ears,  but 
it  was  all  true.  Such  doings  as  they  had  on  New 
Year's  day  had  never  been  seen  before  in  the 
Crat chits'  home,  nor  such  a  turkey  as  Mr.  Scrooge 
sent  them  for  dinner.  Tiny  Tim  had  his  share 
too,  for  Tiny  Tim  did  not  die,  not  a  bit  of  it. 


TINY  TIM  33 

Mr.  Scrooge  was  a  second  father  to  him  from  that 
day,  he  wanted  for  nothing,  and  grew  up  strong 
and  hearty.  Mr.  Scrooge  loved  him,  and  well  he 
might,  for  was  it  not  Tiny  Tim  who  had  without 
knowing  it,  through  the  Christmas  dream-spirit, 
touched  his  hard  heart  and  caused  him  to  become 
a  good  and  happy  man? 


III. 

THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE. 

THE  Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree  Inn  was  the 
young  man  named  Cobbs,  who  blacked 
the  shoes,  and  ran  errands,  and  waited 
on  the  people  at  the  inn;  and  this  is  the  story 
that  he  told,  one  day. 

''Supposing  a  young  gentleman  not  eight  years 
old  was  to  run  away  with  a  fine  young  woman  of 
seven,  would  you  consider  that  a  queer  start? 
That  there  is  a  start  as  I — the  Boots  at  the  Holly 
Tree  Inn — have  seen  with  my  own  eyes;  and  I 
cleaned  the  shoes  they  ran  away  in,  and  they 
was  so  little  that  I  couldn't  get  my  hand  into  'em. 

"Master  Harry  Walmers'  father,  he  lived  at  the 
Elms,  away  by  Shooter's  Hill,  six  or  seven  miles 
from  London.  He  was  uncommon  proud  of 
Master  Harry,  as  he  was  his  only  child;  but  he 
didn't  spoil  him  neither.  He  was  a  gentleman 
that  had  a  will  of  his  own,  and  an  eye  of  his  own, 
and  that  would  be  minded.  Consequently, 
though  he  made  quite  a  companion  of  the  fine 
bright  boy,  still  he  kept  the  command  over  him, 
and  the  child  was  a  child.     I  was  under-gardener 

(34) 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  35 

there  at  that  time;  and  one  morning  Master 
Harry,  he  comes  to  me  and  says — 

"  'Cobbs,  how  should  you  spell  Norah,  if  you 
was  asked?'  and  then  begun  cutting  it  in  print, 
all  over  the  fence. 

"He  couldn't  say  he  had  taken  particular  notice 
of  children  before  that;  but  really  it  was  pretty 
to  see  them  two  mites  a-going  about  the  place  to- 
gether, deep  in  love.  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,  if  they  had  happened  to 
meet  one  and  she  had  been  frightened  of  him. 
One  day  he  stops  along,  with  her,  where  Boots 
was  hoeing  weeds  in  the  gravel,  and  says — speak- 
ing 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  gratify- 
ing.* 'Gratifying,  Cobbs?  It's  better  than  mil- 
lions 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  shouldn't 
object,  if  it  was  a  good  'un.'  'Then,  Cobbs,' 
says   he,  'you  shall   be  our  head-gardener  when 


36  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

we  are  married.'  And  he  tucks  her,  in  her  little 
sky-blue  mantle,  under  his  arm,  and  walks  away. 

"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,  a-rambling  about  the  gar- 
den, deep  in  love.  Boots  was  of  opinion  that  the 
birds  believed  they  was  birds,  and  kept  up  with 
'em,  singing  to  please  'em.  Sometimes,  they 
would  creep  under  the  Tulip  tree,  and  would  sit 
there  with  their  arms  round  one  another'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.  Some- 
times he  would  hear  them  planning  about  having  a 
house  in  a  forest,  keeping  bees  and  a  cow,  and 
living  entirely  on  milk  and  honey.  Once  he  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  headforemost.' 
And  Boots  made  no  question  he  would  have  done 
it,  if  she  hadn't  done  as  he  asked  her. 

**  'Cobbs,'  says  Master  Harry,  one  evening, 
when  Cobbs  was  watering  the  flowers,  'I  am  going 
on  a  visit,  this  present  mid-summer,  to  my  grand- 
mamma's at  York. ' 

"  'Are  you,  indeed,  sir?     I  hope  you'll  have  a 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  37 

pleasant  time.  I  am  going  into  Yorkshire  myself 
when  I  leave  here.' 

"  'Are  you  going  to  your  grandmamma's, 
Cobbs?' 

"  'No,  sir.     I  haven't  got  such  a  thing.' 

**  'Not  as  a  grandmamma,  Cobbs?' 

*'  'No,  sir.' 

"The  boy  looked  on  at  the  watering  of  the 
flowers  for  a  little  while  and  then  said,  'I  shall  be 
very  glad,  indeed,  to  go,  Cobbs — Norah's  going.' 

"  'You'll  be  all  right  then,  sir,'  says  Cobbs, 
'with  your  beautiful  sweetheart  by  your  side.' 

"  'Cobbs,'  returned  the  boy,  flushing,  'I  never 
let  anybody  joke  about  it  when  I  can  pre  vent  them.' 

"  'It  wasn't  a  joke,  sir,'  says  Cobbs,  w4th 
humility — 'wasn't  so  meant.' 

"  'I  am  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?' 

"  'I  couldn't  so  much  as  make  a  guess,  sir.' 

"  *A  Bank  of  England  five-pound  note,  Cobbs.'* 

"  'Whew!'  says  Cobbs,  'that's  a  spanking  sum 
of  money.  Master  Harry.' 

*  For  the  benefit  of  some  of  oxir  young  readers,  it  may  be  well  to  explain 
that  this  is  about  the  same  as  a  bill  of  twenty-five  dollars  would  be  in 
America. 


38  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"  *A  person  could  do  a  great  deal  with  such  a 
sum  of  money  as  that.    Couldn't  a  person,  Cobbs?' 

"  *I  believe  you,  sir!' 

"  'Cobbs,*  said  the  boy,  'I'll  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,'  says  Cobbs,  'is  the  wickedness  of 
human  natur'.' 

"The  boy,  looking  exactly  like  his  father,  stood 
for  a  few  minutes  with  his  glowing  face  towards  the 
sunset,  and  then  departed  with,  'Good  night, 
Cobbs.     I'm  going  in.' 

"I  was  the  Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree  Inn  when 
one  summer  afternoon  the  coach  drives  up,  and 
out  of  the  coach  gets  these  two  children. 

"The  guard  says  to  our  governor,  the  inn-keeper, 
'I  don't  quite  make  out  these  little  passengers, 
but  the  young  gentleman's  words  was,  that  they 
were  to  be  brought  here.'  The  young  gentleman 
gets  out;  hands  his  lady  out;  gives  the  driver 
something  for  himself;  says  to  our  governor, 
'We're  to  stop  here  to-night,  please.  Sitting-room 
and  two  bedrooms  will  be  required.  Chops  and 
cherry-pudding  for  two!'  and  tucks  her,  in  her 
little  sky-blue  mantle,  under  his  arm,  and  walks 
into  the  house  much  bolder  than  brass. 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  39 

"Boots  leaves  me  to  judge  what  the  amazement 
of  that  estabHshment  was  when  those  two  tiny 
creatures,  all  alone  by  themselves,  was  marched 
into  the  parlor — much  more  so  when  he,  who  had 
seen  them  without  their  seeing  him,  gave  the 
governor  his  views  of  the  errand  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  out  from  themselves  whether  your 
opinions  is  correct.'  'Sir,  to  you,'  says  Cobbs, 
'that  shall  be  done  directly.' 

"So  Boots  goes  up  stairs  to  the  parlor,  and  there 
he  finds  Master  Harry  on  an  enormous  sofa 
a-drying  the  eyes  of  Miss  Norah  with  his  pocket- 
hankecher.  Their  little  legs  were  entirely  off  the 
ground  of  course,  and  it  really  is  not  possible  for 
Boots  to  express  to  me  how  small  them  children 
looked. 

"  'It's  Cobbs!  It's  Cobbs!'  cries  Master  Harry, 
and  comes  running  to  him,  and  catching  hold  of 
his  hand.  Miss  Norah  comes  running  to  him  on 
t'other  side,  and  catching  hold  of  his  t'other  hand, 
and  they  both  jump  for  joy. 

"  'I   see  you  a-getting  out,   sir,*  says  Cobbs. 


40  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

*I  thought  it  was  you.  I  thought  I  couldn't  be 
mistaken  in  your  height  and  figure.  What's  the 
object  of  your  journey,  sir?  Are  you  going  to  be 
married?' 

"  'We  are  going  to  be  married,  Cobbs,  at  Gretna 
Green,*  returned  the  boy.  *We  have  run  away  on 
purpose.  Norah  has  been  in  rather  low  spirits, 
Cobbs;  but  she'll  be  happy,  now  we  have  found 
you  to  be  our  friend.' 

"  'Thank  you,  sir,  and  thank  you,  miss,'  says 
Cobbs,  '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  and  a  half  of  cold 
buttered  toast,  eight  peppermint  drops,  and  a 
hair-brush — seemingly  a  doll's.  The  gentleman 
had  got  about  half  a  dozen  yards  of  string,  a  knife, 
three  or  four  sheets  of  writing-paper  folded  up 
surprisingly  small,  an  orange,  and  a  china  mug 
with  his  name  upon  it. 

"  'What  may  be  the  exact  natur'  of  your  plans, 
sir?'  says  Cobbs. 

"  'To  go  on,'  replied  the  boy — which  the 
courage  of  that  boy  was  something  wonder- 
ful!— 'in  the  morning,  and  be  married  to- 
morrow.' 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  41 

"  *Just  so,  sir,'  says  Cobbs.  'Would  it  meet 
your  views,  sir,  if  I  was  to  go  with  you?' 

"When  Cobbs  said  this,  they  both  jumped  for  joy 
again,  and  cried  out,  'Oh,  yes,  yes,  Cobbs!  Yes!' 

"  'Well,  sir,'  says  Cobbs.  'If  you  will  excuse 
my  having  the  freedom  to  give  an  opinion,  what 
I  should  recommend  would  be  this.  I'm  ac- 
quainted with  a  pony,  sir,  which,  put  in  a  phaeton 
that  I  could  borrow,  would  take  you  and  Mrs. 
Harry  Walmers,  Jr.  (myself  driving,  if  you  agree), 
to  the  end  of  your  journey  in  a  very  short  space 
of  time.  I  am  not  altogether  sure,  sir,  that  this 
pony  will  be  at  liberty  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  for 
your  board  here,  sir,  in  case  you  was  to  find  your- 
self running  at  all  short,  that  don't  signify,  because 
I'm  a  part  proprietor  of  this  inn,  and  it  could 
stand  over.' 

"Boots  tells  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  their 
trusting  hearts,  he  felt  himself  the  meanest  rascal 
for  deceiving  'em  that  ever  was  bom. 

"  'Is  there  anything  you  want  just  at  present, 
sir?'  says  Cobbs,  mortally  ashamed  of  himself. 


42  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"  *We  would  like  some  cakes  after  dinner/ 
answered  Master  Harry,  folding  his  arms,  putting 
out  one  leg,  and  looking  straight  at  him,  '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.' 

"  'It  shall  be  ordered  at  the  bar,  sir,*  says  Cobbs , 
and  away  he  went. 

"  'The  way  in  which  the  women  of  that  house — 
without  exception — everyone  of  'em — married 
and  single,  took  to  that  boy  when  they  heard  the 
story,  Boots  considers  surprising.  It  w^as  as  much 
as  he  could  do  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 
through  a  pane  of  glass.  They  were  seven  deep 
at  the  key-hole.  They  were  out  of  their  minds 
about  him  and  his  bold  spirit. 

"In  the  evening  Boots  went  into  the  room,  to 
see  how  the  runaway  couple  was  getting  on.  The 
gentleman  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,  Jr.,  tired,  sir?'  says  Cobbs. 

"  'Yes,  she  is  tired,  Cobbs;  but  she  is  not  used 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  43 

to  be  away  from  home,  and  she  has  been  in  low 
spirits  again.  Cobbs,  do  you  think  you  could 
bring  a  biffin,  please?' 

"  'I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,'  says  Cobbs.  'What 
was  it  you — ' 

"  'I  think  a  Norfolk  biffin*  would  rouse  her, 
Cobbs.     She  is  very  fond  of  them.' 

"Boots  withdrew  in  search  of  the  required 
restorative,  and,  when  he  brought  it  in,  the  gentle- 
man 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,'  says  Cobbs,  'of  a  chamber  candle- 
stick?' The  gentleman  approved;  the  chamber- 
maid went  first,  up  the  great  staircase;  the  lady, 
in  her  sky-blue  mantle,  followed,  gallantly  led  by 
the  gentleman;  the  gentleman  kissed  her  at  the 
door,  and  retired  to  his  own  room,  where  Boots 
softly  locked  him  up. 

"Boots  couldn't  but  feel  what  a  base  deceiver 
he  was  w^hen  they  asked  him  at  breakfast  (they 
had  ordered  sweet  milk-and-water,  and  toast  and 
currant  jelly,  overnight)  about  the  pony.  It 
really  was  as  much  as  he  could  do,  he  don't  mind 
confessing  to  me,  to  look  them  two  young  things 

♦  A  biffin  is  a  red  apple,  growing  near  Norfolk,  and  generally  eaten  aftej 
having  been  baked. 


44  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

in  the  face,  and  think  how  wicked  he  had  grown 
up  to  be.  Howsomever,  he  went  on  a-lying  hke 
a  Trojan,  about  the  pony.  He  told  'em  it  did  so 
unfortunately  happen  that  the  pony  was  half- 
clipped,  you  see,  and  that  he  couldn't  be  taken  out 
in  that  state  for  fear  that  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  phaeton  would  be  ready. 
Boots'  view  of  the  whole  case,  looking  back  upon 
it  in  my  room,  is,  that  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Jr., 
was  beginning  to  give  in.  She  hadn't  had  her 
hair  curled  when  she  went  to  bed,  and  she  didn't 
seem  quite  up  to  brushing  it  herself,  and  it's 
getting  in  her  eyes  put  her  out.  But  nothing  put 
out  Master  Harry.  He  sat  behind  his  breakfast 
cup,  a-tearing  away  at  the  jelly,  as  if  he  had  been 
his  own  father. 

''After  breakfast  Boots  is  inclined  to  think  that 
they  drawed  soldiers — at  least,  he  knows  that 
many  such  was  found  in  the  fireplace,  all  on  horse- 
back. In  the  course  of  the  morning  Master  Harry 
rang  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,'  says  Cobbs.     'There's  Love  Lane.' 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  45 

"  'Get  out  with  you,  Cobbs!' — that  was  that 
there  boy's  expression — 'you're  joking.' 

**  'Begging  your  pardon,  sir,'  says  Cobbs, 
'there  really  is  Love  Lane.  And  a  pleasant  walk 
it  is,  and  proud  I  shall  be  to  show  it  to  yourself 
and  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers,  Jr.' 

"  'Norah,  dear,'  said  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.  Boots  could  have 
wished  at  the  moment  that  the  earth  would  have 
opened  and  sw^allowed  him  up;  he  felt  so  mean 
with  their  beaming  eyes  a-looking  at  him,  and 
believing  him.  Well,  sir,  he  turned  the  conversa- 
tion as  well  as  he  could,  and  he  took  'em  down 
Love  Lane  to  the  water-meadows,  and  there 
Master  Harry  would  have  drowned  himself  in  half 
a  moment  more,  a-getting  out  a  water-lily  for 
her — but  nothing  frightened  that  boy.  Well, 
sir,  they  was  tired  out.  All  being  so  new  and 
strange  to  'em,  they  was  tired  as  tired  could  be. 


46  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

And  they  laid  down  on  a  bank  of  daisies,  like  the 
children  in  the  wood,  leastways  meadows,  and  fell 
asleep. 

"Well,  sir,  they  woke  up  at  last,  and  then  one 
thing  was  getting  pretty  clear  to  Boots,  namely, 
that  Mrs.  Harry  Walmers',  Jr.,  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  Harry  tease 
you?'  she  tells  him,  'Yes;  and  I  want  to  go  home!' 

"However,  Master  Harry  he  kept  up,  and  his 
noble  heart  was  as  fond  as  ever.  Mrs.  Walmers 
turned  very  sleepy  about  dusk  and  began  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  inn-keeper  in  a  chaise,  along  with  Mr.  Walmers 
and  an  elderly  lady.  Mr.  Walmers  looks  amused 
and  very  serious,  both  at  once,  and  says  to  our 
missis,  *We  are  very  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  children  in  charge,  sir.  Cobbs,  show 
forty!'  Then  he  says  to  Cobbs,  'Ah,  Cobbs! 
I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  understand  you  was  here !' 
And  Cobbs  says,  'Yes,  sir.    Your  most  obedient,  sir. ' 


THE  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  47 

"I  may  be  surprised  to  hear  Boots  say  it,  per- 
haps, but  Boots  assures  me  that  his  heart  beat 
like  a  hammer,  going  up -stairs.  *I  beg  your  par- 
don, sir,'  says  he,  while  unlocking  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  daring  state  of  mind  in  which  he  then  was,  he 
thinks  he  should  have  'fetched  him  a  crack,'  and 
taken  the  consequences. 

"But  Mr.  Walmers  only  says,  'No,  Cobbs.  No, 
my  good  fellow.  Thank  you!'  And  the  door 
being  open,  goes  in. 

''Boots  goes  in  too,  holding  the  light,  and  he 
sees  Mr.  Walmers  go  up  to  the  bedside,  bend  gently 
down,  and  kiss  the  little  sleeping  face.  Then  he 
stands  looking  at  it  for  a  minute,  looking  wonder- 
fully like  it;  and  then  he  gently  shakes  the  little 
shoulder. 

"  'Harry,  my  dear  boy!  Harry!' 

"Master  Harry  starts  up  and  looks  at  him. 
Looks  at  Cobbs,  too.  Such  is  the  honor  of  that 
mite  that  he  looks  at  Cobbs  to  see  whether  he  has 
brought  him  into  trouble. 

"  *I  am  not  angry,  my  child.  I  only  want  you 
to  dress  yourself  and  come  home.' 


48  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"  'Yes,  pa.' 

"Master  Harry  dresses  himself  quickly.  His 
breast  begins  to  swell  when  he  has  nearly  finished, 
and  it  swells  more  and  more  as  he  stands  a-looking 
at  his  father ;  his  father  standing  a-looking  at  him, 
the  quiet  image  of  him. 

"  'Please  may  I' — the  spirit  of  that  little  crea- 
tur',  and  the  way  he  kept  his  rising  tears  down! — 
Tlease,  dear  pa — may  I — kiss  Norah  before  I 
go?' 

"  'You  may,  my  child.' 

"So  he  takes  Master  Harry  in  his  hand,  and 
Boots  leads  the  way  with  the  candle,  and  they 
come  to  that  other  bedroom;  where  the  elderly 
lady  is  seated  by  the  bed,  and  poor  little  Mrs. 
Harry  Walmers,  Jr.,  is  fast  asleep.  There  the 
father  lifts  the  child  up  to  the  pillow,  and  he  lays 
his  little  face  down  for  an  instant  by  the  little 
warm  face  of  poor  unconscious  little  Mrs.  Harry 
Walmers,  Jr.,  and  gently  draws  it  to  him — a  sight 
so  touching  to  the  chambermaids  who  are  peeping 
through  the  door  that  one  of  them  calls  out, 
'It's  a  shame  to  part  'em !'  But  this  chambermaid 
was  always,  as  Boots  informs  me,  a  soft-hearted 
one.  Not  that  there  was  any  harm  in  that  girl. 
Far  from  it." 


IV. 
LITTLE  DORRIT. 

MANY  years  ago,  when  people  could  be  put 
in  prison  for  debt,  a  poor  gentleman,  who 
was  unfortunate  enough  to  lose  all  his 
money,  was  brought  to  the  Marshalsea  prison, 
which  was  the  prison  where  debtors  w^ere  kept.  As 
there  seemed  no  prospect  of  being  able  to  pay  his 
debts,  his  wife  and  their  two  little  children  came 
to  live  there  with  him.  The  elder  child  was  a 
boy  of  three ;  the  younger  a  little  girl  of  two  years 
old,  and  not  long  afterwards  another  little  girl 
was  bom.  The  three  children  played  in  the  court- 
yard, and  on  the  whole  were  happy,  for  they  were 
too  young  to  remember  a  happier  state  of  things. 
But  the  youngest  child,  who  had  never  been  out- 
side the  prison  walls,  was  a  thoughtful  little  creature, 
and  wondered  what  the  outside  world  could  be  like. 
Her  great  friend,  the  turnkey,  w^ho  was  also  her  god- 
father, became  very  fond  of  her,  and  as  soon  as  she 
could  walk  and  talk  he  brought  a  little  arm-chair 
and  stood  it  by  his  fire  at  the  lodge,  and  coaxed  her 
with  cheap  toys  to  come  and  sit  with  him.  In  re- 
turn the  child  loved  him  dearly,  and  would  often 

4  (49) 


50  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

bring  her  doll  to  dress  and  undress  as  she  sat  in  the 
little  arm-chair.  She  was  still  a  very  tiny  creature 
when  she  began  to  understand  that  everyone  did 
not  live  locked  up  inside  high  walls  with  spikes  at 
the  top,  and  though  she  and  the  rest  of  the  family 
might  pass  through  the  door  that  the  great  key 
opened,  her  father  could  not ;  and  she  would  look  at 
him  with  a  wondering  pity  in  her  tender  little  heart. 

One  day,  she  was  sitting  in  the  lodge  gazing 
wistfully  up  at  the  sky  through  the  barred  window. 
The  turnkey,  after  watching  her  some  time,  said : 

'Thinking  of  the  fields,  ain't  you?" 

"Where  are  they?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  they're — over  there,  my  dear,"  said  the 
turnkey,  waving  his  key  vaguely,  "just  about 
there." 

"Does  anybody  open  them  and  shut  them? 
Are  they  locked?" 

"Well,"  said  the  turnkey,  not  knowing  what  to 
say,  "not  in  general." 

"Are  they  pretty,  Bob?"  She  called  him  Bob, 
because  he  wished  it. 

"Lovely.  Full  of  flowers.  There's  buttercups, 
and  there's  daisies,  and  there's — "  here  he  hesitated 
not  knowing  the  names  of  many  flowers — "there's 
dandelions,  and  all  manner  of  games." 

"Is  it  very  pleasant  to  be  there,  Bob?" 


LITTLE  DORRIT  51 

"Prime,"  said  the  turnkey. 

"Was  father  ever  there?" 

"Hem!"  coughed  the  turnkey.  "O  yes,  he  was 
there,  sometimes." 

"Is  he  sorry  not  to  be  there  now?" 

"N — not  particular,"  said  the  turnkey. 

"Nor  any  of  the  people?"  she  asked,  glancing 
at  the  listless  crowd  within.  "O  are  you  quite 
sure  and  certain,  Bob?" 

At  this  point.  Bob  gave  in  and  changed  the  sub- 
ject to  candy.  But  after  this  chat,  the  turnkey 
and  little  Amy  would  go  out  on  his  free  Sunday 
afternoons  to  some  meadows  or  green  lanes,  and 
she  would  pick  grass  and  flowers  to  bring  home, 
while  he  smoked  his  pipe;  and  then  they  would 
go  to  some  tea-gardens  for  shrimps  and  tea  and 
other  delicacies,  and  would  come  back  hand  in 
hand,  unless  she  was  very  tired  and  had  fallen 
asleep  on  his  shoulder. 

When  Amy  was  only  eight  years  old,  her  mother 
died ;  and  the  poor  father  was  more  helpless  and 
broken-down  than  ever,  and  as  Fanny  was  a 
careless  child  and  Edward  idle,  the  little  one,  who 
had  the  bravest  and  truest  heart,  was  led  by  her 
love  and  unselfishness  to  be  the  little  mother  of 
the  forlorn  family,  and  struggled  to  get  some  little 
education  for  herself  and  her  brother  and  sister. 


52  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

At  first,  such  a  baby  could  do  little  more  than 
sit  with  her  father,  deserting  her  livelier  place  by 
the  high  fender,  and  quietly  watching  him.  But 
this  made  her  so  far  necessary  to  him  that  he 
became  accustomed  to  her,  and  began  to  be 
sensible  of  missing  her  when  she  was  not  there. 
Through  this  little  gate,  she  passed  out  of  her 
childhood  into  the  care-laden  world. 

What  her  pitiful  look  saw,  at  that  early  time, 
in  her  father,  in  her  sister,  in  her  brother,  in  the 
jail ;  how  much  or  how  little  of  the  wretched  truth 
it  pleased  God  to  make  plain  to  her,  lies  hidden 
with  many  mysteries.  It  is  enough  that  she  was 
inspired  to  be  something  which  was  not  w^hat  the 
rest  were,  and  to  be  that  something,  different  and 
laborious,  for  the  sake  of  the  rest.  Inspired? 
Yes.  Shall  we  speak  of  a  poet  or  a  priest,  and  not 
of  the  heart  impelled  by  love  and  self-devotion 
to  the  lowliest  work  in  the  lowliest  way  of  life? 

The  family  stayed  so  long  in  the  prison  that  the 
old  man  came  to  be  known  as  "The  Father  of  the 
Marshalsea;"  and  little  Amy,  who  had  never 
known  any  other  home,  as  'The  Child  of  the 
Marshalsea." 

At  thirteen  she  could  read  and  keep  accounts — 
that  is,  could  put  down  in  words  and  figures  how 
much    the    bare    necessaries    that    they    wanted 


LITTLE  DORRIT  53 

would  cost,  and  how  much  less  they  had  to  buy 
them  with.  She  had  been,  by  snatches  of  a  few 
weeks  at  a  time,  to  an  evening  school  outside, 
and  got  her  sister  and  brother  sent  to  day-schools 
from  time  to  time  during  three  or  four  years. 
There  was  no  teaching  for  any  of  them  at  home ; 
but  she  knew  well — no  one  better — that  a  man  so 
broken  as  to  be  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea, 
could  be  no  father  to  his  own  children. 

To  these  scanty  means  of  improvement,  she 
added  another  of  her  own  contriving.  Once  among 
the  crowd  of  prisoners  there  appeared  a  dancing- 
master.  Her  sister  had  a  great  desire  to  learn  the 
dancing-master's  art,  and  seemed  to  have  a  taste 
that  way.  At  thirteen  years  old,  the  Child  of  the 
Marshalsea  presented  herself  to  the  dancing- 
master,  with  a  little  bag  in  her  hand,  and  offered 
her  humble  petition. 

"If  you  please,  I  was  born  here,  sir." 

"Oh!  you  are  the  young  lady,  are  you?"  said 
the  dancing-master,  surveying  the  small  figure 
and  uplifted  face. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  said  the  dancing- 
master. 

"Nothing  for  me,  sir,  thank  you,"  anxiously 
undrawing  the  strings  of  the  little  bag;  "but  if, 


54  DICKENS*  CHILDREN 

while  you  stay  here,  you  could  be  so  kind  as  to 
teach  my  sister  cheap — " 

*'My  child,  I'll  teach  her  for  nothing,*'  said  the 
dancing-master,  shutting  up  the  bag.  He  was 
as  good-natured  a  dancing-master  as  ever  danced 
to  the  Insolvent  Court,  and  he  kept  his  word. 
The  sister  was  so  apt  a  pupil,  and  the  dancing- 
master  had  such  abundant  time  to  give  her,  that 
wonderful  progress  was  made.  Indeed,  the  danc- 
ing-master was  so  proud  of  it,  and  so  wishful  to 
show  it  before  he  left,  to  a  few  select  friends 
among  the  collegians  (the  debtors  in  the  prison 
were  called  "collegians"),  that  at  six  o'clock  on  a 
certain  fine  morning,  an  exhibition  was  held  in 
the  yard — the  college-rooms  being  of  too  small 
size  for  the  purpose — in  which  so  much  ground  was 
covered,  and  the  steps  were  so  well  executed,  that 
the  dancing-master,  having  to  play  his  fiddle 
besides,  was  thoroughly  tired  out. 

The  success  of  this  beginning,  which  led  to  the 
dancing-master's  continuing  his  teaching  after 
his  release,  led  the  poor  child  to  try  again.  She 
watched  and  waited  months  for  a  seamstress. 
In  the  fullness  of  time  a  milliner  came  in,  sent 
there  like  all  the  rest  for  a  debt  which  she  could 
not  pay;  and  to  her  she  went  to  ask  a  favor  for 
herself. 


LITTLE  DORRIT  55 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  she  said,  looking 
timidly  round  the  door  of  the  milliner,  whom  she 
found  in  tears  and  in  bed:  "but  I  was  bom  here." 

Everybody  seemed  to  hear  of  her  as  soon  as 
they  arrived ;  for  the  milliner  sat  up  in  bed,  drying 
her  eyes,  and  said,  just  as  the  dancing-master 
had  said  : 

''Oh!  you  are  the  child,  are  you?" 

**Yes,  ma'am." 

"I  am  sorry  I  haven't  got  anything  for  you," 
said  the  milliner,  shaking  her  head. 

*'It's  not  that,  ma'am.  If  you  please,  I  want 
to  learn  needlework." 

"Why  should  you  do  that,"  returned  the 
milliner,  "with  me  before  you?  It  has  not  done 
me  much  good." 

"Nothing — whatever  it  is — seems  to  have  done 
anybody  much  good  who  comes  here,"  she 
returned  in  her  simple  way;  "but  I  want  to  learn, 
just  the  same." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  so  weak,  you  see,"  the 
milliner  objected. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  weak,  ma'am." 

"And  you  are  so  very,  very  little,  you  see,"  the 
milliner  objected. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  I  am  very  little  indeed," 
returned  the   Child   of   the   Marshalsea;  and   so 


$6  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

began  to  sob  over  that  unfortunate  smallness  of 
hers,  which  came  so  often  in  her  way.  The  milli- 
ner— who  was  not  unkind  or  hardhearted,  only 
badly  in  debt — was  touched,  took  her  in  hand 
with  good-will,  found  her  the  most  patient  and 
earnest  of  pupils,  and  made  her  a  good  work- 
woman. 

In  course  of  time,  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea 
gradually  developed  a  new  trait  of  character.  He 
was  very  greatly  ashamed  of  having  his  two 
daughters  work  for  their  living;  and  tried  to 
make  it  appear  that  they  were  only  doing  work 
for  pleasure,  not  for  pay.  But  at  the  same  time 
he  would  take  money  from  any  one  who  would 
give  it  to  him,  without  any  sense  of  shame.  With 
the  same  hand  that  had  pocketed  a  fellow- 
prisoner's  half-crown  half  an  hour  ago,  he  would 
wipe  away  the  tears  that  streamed  over  his  cheeks 
if  anything  was  spoken  of  his  daughters'  earning 
their  bread.  So,  over  and  above  her  other  daily 
cares,  the  Child  of  the  Marshalsea  had  always  upon 
her  the  care  of  keeping  up  the  make-believe  that 
they  were  all  idle  beggars  together. 

The  sister  became  a  dancer.  There  was  a 
ruined  uncle  in  the  family  group — ruined  by  his 
brother,  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea,  and  know- 
ing no  more  how,  than  his  ruiner  did,  but  taking 


LITTLE  DORRIT  57 

the  fact  as  something  that  could  not  be  helped. 
Naturally  a  retired  and  simple  man,  he  had  shown 
no  particular  sense  of  being  ruined,  at  the  time 
when  that  calamity  fell  upon  him,  further  than 
he  left  off  washing  himself  when  the  shock  was 
announced,  and  never  took  to  washing  his  face 
and  hands  any  more.  He  had  been  a  rather  poor 
musician  in  his  better  days ;  and  when  he  fell  with 
his  brother,  supported  himself  in  a  poor  way  by 
playing  a  clarionet  as  dirty  as  himself  in  a  small 
theatre  band.  It  was  the  theatre  in  w^hich  his 
niece  became  a  dancer;  he  had  been  a  fixture 
there  a  long  time  when  she  took  her  poor  station 
in  it;  and  he  accepted  the  task  of  serving  as  her 
guardian,  just  as  he  would  have  accepted  an 
illness,  a  legacy,  a  feast,  starvation — anything 
but  soap. 

To  enable  this  girl  to  earn  her  few  weekly 
shillings,  it  was  necessary  for  the  Child  of  the 
Marshalsea  to  go  through  a  careful  form  with  her 
father. 

"Fanny  is  not  going  to  live  with  us,  just  now, 
father.  She  will  be  here  a  good  deal  in  the  day, 
but  she  is  going  to  live  outside  with  uncle." 

"You  surprise  me.     Why?" 

"I  think  uncle  wants  a  companion,  father. 
He  should  be  attended  to  and  looked  after." 


58  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"A  companion?  He  passes  much  of  his  time 
here.  And  you  attend  and  look  after  him,  Amy, 
a  great  deal  more  than  ever  your  sister  will.  You 
all  go  out  so  much;  you  all  go  out  so  much." 

This  was  to  keep  up  the  form  and  pretense  of 
his  having  no  idea  that  Amy  herself  went  out  by 
the  day  to  work. 

"But  we  are  always  very  glad  to  come  home, 
father;  now,  are  we  not?  And  as  to  Fanny, 
perhaps  besides  keeping  uncle  company  and 
taking  care  of  him,  it  may  be  as  well  for  her  not 
quite  to  live  here  always.  She  was  not  bom  here 
as  I  was  you  know,  father." 

"Well,  Amy,  well.  I  don't  quite  follow  you, 
but  it's  natural  I  suppose  that  Fanny  should 
prefer  to  be  outside,  and  even  that  you  often 
should,  too.  So,  you  and  Fanny  and  your  uncle, 
my  dear,  shall  have  your  own  way.  Good,  good. 
I'll  not  meddle;  don't  mind  me." 

To  get  her  brother  out  of  the  prison ;  out  of  the 
low  work  of  running  errands  for  the  prisoners 
outside,  and  out  of  the  bad  company  into  which 
he  had  fallen,  was  her  hardest  task.  At  eighteen 
years  of  age  her  brother  Edward  would  have 
dragged  on  from  hand  to  mouth,  from  hour  to 
hour,  from  penny  to  penny,  until  eighty.  Nobody 
got  into  the  prison  from  whom  he  gained  anything 


LITTLE  DORRIT  59 

useful  or  good,  and  she  could  find  no  patron  for 
him  but  her  old  friend  and  godfather,  the  turnkey. 

"Dear  Bob,"  said  she,  "what  is  to  become  of 
poor  Tip?"  His  name  was  Edward,  and  Ted  had 
been  changed  into  Tip,  within  the  walls. 

The  turnkey  had  strong  opinions  of  his  own  as 
to  what  would  become  of  poor  Tip,  and  had  even 
gone  so  far  with  the  view  of  preventing  their  ful- 
filment, as  to  talk  to  Tip  in  urging  him  to  run 
away  and  serve  his  country  as  a  soldier.  But  Tip 
had  thanked  him,  and  said  he  didn't  seem  to  care 
for  his  country. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  turnkey,  "something 
ought  to  be  done  with  him.  Suppose  I  try  and 
get  him  into  the  law?" 

"That  would  be  so  good  of  you.  Bob!" 

The  turnkey  now  began  to  speak  to  the  lawyers 
as  they  passed  in  and  out  of  the  prison.  He  spoke 
so  perseveringly  that  a  stool  and  twelve  shillings 
a  week  were  at  last  found  for  Tip  in  the  office  of 
a  lawyer  at  Clifford's  Inn,  in  the  Palace  Court. 

Tip  idled  in  Clifford's  Inn  for  six  months,  and 
at  the  end  of  that  term  sauntered  back  one 
evening  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
remarked  to  his  sister  that  he  was  not  going  back 
again. 

"Not  going  back  again?"  said  the  poor  little 


6o  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

anxious  Child  of  the  Marshalsea,  always  calculat- 
ing and  planning  for  Tip,  in  the  front  rank  of  her 
charges. 

"I  am  so  tired  of  it,"  said  Tip,  ''that  I  have 
cut  it." 

Tip  tired  of  ever3d:hing.  With  intervals  of 
Marshalsea  lounging,  and  errand -running,  his 
small  second  mother,  aided  by  her  trusty  friend, 
got  him  into  a  warehouse,  into  a  market  garden, 
into  the  hop  trade,  into  the  law  again,  into  an 
auctioneer's,  into  a  brewery,  into  a  stockbroker's, 
into  the  law  again,  into  a  coach  office,  into  a  wagon 
oihce,  into  the  law  again,  into  a  general  dealer's, 
into  a  distillery,  into  the  law  again,  into  a  wool 
house,  into  a  dry  goods  house,  into  the  fish- 
market,  into  the  foreign  fruit  trade,  and  into  the 
docks.  But  whatever  Tip  went  into  he  came  out 
of  tired,  announcing  that  he  had  cut  it.  Wherever 
he  went,  this  useless  Tip  appeared  to  take  the 
prison  walls  with  him,  and  to  set  them  up  in  such 
trade  or  calling;  and  to  prowl  about  within  their 
narrow  limits  in  the  old  slipshod,  purposeless, 
dov/n-at-heel  way;  until  the  real  immovable 
Marshalsea  walls  asserted  their  power  over  him 
and  brought  him  back. 

Nevertheless,  the  brave  little  creature  did  so 
fix  her  heart  on  her  brother's  rescue  that,  while  he 


LITTLE  DORRIT  6i 

was  ringing  out  these  doleful  changes,  she  pinched 
and  scraped  enough  together  to  ship  him  for  Canada. 
When  he  was  tired  of  nothing  to  do,  and  disposed 
in  its  turn  to  cut  even  that,  he  graciously  con- 
sented to  go  to  Canada.  And  there  was  grief  in 
her  bosom  over  parting  with  him,  and  joy  in  the 
hope  of  his  being  put  in  a  straight  course  at  last. 

"God  bless  you,  dear  Tip.  Don't  be  too  proud 
to  come  and  see  us,  when  you  have  made  your 
fortune." 

*'AI1  right!"  said  Tip,  and  went. 

But  not  all  the  way  to  Canada;  in  fact,  not 
further  than  Liverpool.  After  making  the  voy- 
age to  that  port  from  London,  he  found  himself  so 
strongly  impelled  to  cut  the  vessel,  that  he  re- 
solved to  walk  back  again.  Carrying  out  which 
intention,  he  presented  himself  before  her  at  the 
expiration  of  a  month,  in  rags,  without  shoes,  and 
much  more  tired  than  ever. 

At  length,  after  another  period  of  running 
errands,  he  found  a  pursuit  for  himself,  and 
announced  it. 

"Amy,  I  have  got  a  situation.*' 

"Have  you  really  and  truly,  Tip?" 

"All  right.  I  shall  do  now.  You  needn't  look 
anxious  about  me  any  more,  old  girl." 

"What  is  it,  Tip?" 


62  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Why,  you  know  Slingo  by  sight?" 

"Not  the  man  they  call  the  dealer?" 

"That's  the  chap.  He'll  be  out  on  Monday, 
and  he's  going  to  give  me  a  berth." 

"What  is  he  a  dealer  in,  Tip?" 

' ' Horses.     All  right !     I  shall  do  now,  Amy. ' ' 

She  lost  sight  of  him  for  months  afterwards, 
and  only  heard  from  him  once.  A  whisper  passed 
among  the  elder  prisoners  that  he  had  been  seen 
at  a  mock  auction  in  Moorfields,  pretending  to 
buy  plated  articles  for  real  silver,  and  paying  for 
them  with  the  greatest  liberality  in  bank-notes; 
but  it  never  reached  her  ears.  One  evening  she 
was  alone  at  work — standing  up  at  the  window, 
to  save  the  twilight  lingering  above  the  wall — 
when  he  opened  the  door  and  walked  in. 

She  kissed  and  welcomed  him;  but  was  afraid 
to  ask  him  any  question.  He  saw  how  anxious 
and  timid  she  was,  and  appeared  sorry. 

"I  am^afraid.  Amy,  you'll  be  vexed  this  time. 
Upon  my  life  I  am!" 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,  Tip. 
Have  you  come  back?" 

"Why— yes." 

"Not  expecting  this  time  that  what  you  had 
found  would  answer  very  well,  I  am  less  surprised 
and  sorry  than  I  might  have  been.  Tip." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  63 

"Ah!     But  that's  not  the  worst  of  it." 

"Not   the   worst   of   it?" 

"Don't  look  so  startled.  No,  Amy,  not  the 
worst  of  it.  I  have  come  back,  you  see;  but — 
don't  look  so  startled — I  have  come  back  in  what 
I  may  call  a  new  way.  I  am  off  the  volunteer  list 
altogether.  I  am  in  now,  as  one  of  the  regulars. 
I'm  here  in  prison  for  debt,  like  everybody  else." 

"Oh!  Don't  say  that  you  are  a  prisoner,  Tip! 
Don't,  don't!" 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  say  it,"  he  returned  in 
unwilling  tone;  "but  if  you  can't  understand  me 
without  my  saying  it,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  am  in 
for  forty  pound  odd." 

For  the  first  time  in  all  those  years,  she  sunk 
under  her  cares.  She  cried,  with  her  clasped 
hands  lifted  above  her  head,  that  it  would  kill 
their  father  if  he  ever  knew  it ;  and  fell  down  at 
Tip's  worthless  feet. 

It  was  easier  for  Tip  to  bring  her  to  her  senses 
than  for  her  to  bring  him  to  understand  that  the 
Father  of  the  Marshalsea  would  be  beside  himself 
if  he  knew  the  truth.  Tip  thought  that  there  was 
nothing  strange  in  being  there  a  prisoner,  but  he 
agreed  that  his  father  should  not  be  told  about  it. 
There  were  plenty  of  reasons  that  could  be  given 
for  his  return ;  it  was  accounted  for  to  the  father 


64  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

in  the  usual  way;  and  the  collegians,  with  a 
better  understanding  of  the  kind  fraud  than  Tip, 
stood  by  it  faithfully. 

This  was  the  life,  and  this  the  history,  of  the 
Child  of  the  Marshalsea,  at  twenty-two.     With  a 
still  abiding  interest  in  the  one  miserable  yard  and 
block  of  houses  as  her  birthplace  and  home,  she 
passed  to  and  fro  in  it  shrinking  now,  with  a 
womanly  consciousness  that  she  was  pointed  out  to 
everyone.     Since  she  had  begun  to  work  beyond 
the  walls,  she  had  found  it  necessary  to  hide  where 
she  lived,  and  to  come  and  go  as  secretly  as  she 
could,  between  the  free  city  and  the  iron  gates, 
outside  of  which  she  had  never  slept  in  her  life. 
Her  original  timidity  had  grown  with  this  con- 
cealment, and  her  light  step  and  her  little  figure 
shunned  the  thronged  streets  while  they  passed 

along  them. 

Worldly  wise  in  hard  and  poor  necessities,  she 
was  innocent  in  all  things  else.  Innocent,  in  the 
mist  through  which  she  saw  her  father,  and  the 
prison,  and  the  dark  living  river  that  flowed 
through  it  and  flowed  on. 

This  was  the  life,  and  this  the  history,  of 
Little  DoiTit,  until  the  son  of  a  lady,  Mrs.  Clennam, 
to  whose  house  Amy  went  to  do  needlework, 
became    interested    in    the    pale,    patient    little 


R  ^  ff .  |>IXOtV»  t^O^  s 


m 


'Mr.  Clennam  Followed  Her  Home." 


Page  6  s 


LITTLE  DORRIT  65 

creature.  He  followed  her  to  her  home  one  day 
and  when  he  found  that  it  was  the  debtor's  prison, 
he  walked  in.  Learning  her  sad  history  from 
her  father,  Arthur  Clennam  resolved  to  do  his  best 
to  try  to  get  him  released  and  to  help  them  all. 

One  day  when  he  was  walking  home  with  Am}'- 
to  try  to  find  out  the  names  of  some  of  the  people 
her  father  owed  money  to,  a  voice  was  heard 
calling,  "Little  mother,  little  mother,"  and  a 
strange  figure  came  bouncing  up  to  them  and  fell 
down,  scattering  her  basketful  of  potatoes  on  the 
ground.  ''Oh  Maggie,"  said  Amy,  ''what  a  clumsy 
child  you  are!" 

She  was  about  eight  and  twenty,  with  large 
bones,  large  features,  large  hands  and  feet,  large 
eyes,  and  no  hair.  Amy  told  Mr.  Clennam  that 
Maggie  was  the  granddaughter  of  her  old  nurse, 
who  had  been  dead  a  long  time,  and  that  her  grand- 
mother had  been  very  unkind  to  her  and  beat  her. 

*'When  Maggie  was  ten  years  old  she  had  a  fever, 
and  she  has  never  grown  older  since." 

"Ten  years  old,"  said  Maggie.  "But  what  a 
nice  hospital!  So  comfortable,  wasn't  it?  Such 
a  'e'v'nly  place !  Such  beds  there  is  there !  Such 
lemonades !  Such  oranges !  Such  delicious  broth 
and  wine !  Such  chicking !  Oh,  ain't  it  a  delight- 
ful  place   to   stop   at!" 


66  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Poor  Maggie  thought  that  a  hospital  was  the 
nicest  place  in  all  the  world,  because  she  had 
never  seen  another  home  as  good.  For  years  and 
years  she  looked  back  to  the  hospital  as  a  sort  of 
heaven  on  earth." 

"Then  when  she  came  out,  her  grandmother 
did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her,  and  was  very 
unkind.  But  after  some  time  Maggie  tried  to 
improve,  and  was  very  attentive  and  industrious 
and  now  she  can  earn  her  own  living  entirely, 
sir!" 

Amy  did  not  say  who  had  taken  pains  to  teach 
and  encourage  the  poor  half-witted  creature,  but 
Mr.  Clennam  guessed  from  the  name  "little 
mother"  and  the  fondness  of  the  poor  creature  for 
Amy. 

One  cold,  wet  evening,  Amy  and  Maggie  went 
to  Mr.  Clennam' s  house  to  thank  him  for  having 
freed  Edward  from  the  prison,  and  on  coming 
out  found  it  was  too  late  to  get  home,  as  the  gate 
was  locked.  They  tried  to  get  in  at  Maggie's 
lodgings,  but,  though  they  knocked  twice,  the 
people  were  asleep.  As  Amy  did  not  wish  to 
disturb  them,  they  wandered  about  all  night, 
sometimes  sitting  at  the  gate  of  the  prison,  Maggie 
shivering  and  whimpering. 

"It  will  soon  be  over,  dear,"  said  patient  Amy. 


LITTLE  DORRIT  67 

**0h,  it's  all  very  well  for  you,  mother,"  said 
Maggie,  "but  I'm  a  poor  thing,  only  ten  years  old." 

Thanks  to  Mr.  Clennam,  a  great  change  took 
place  in  the  fortunes  of  the  family,  and  not  long 
after  this  wretched  night  it  was  discovered  that 
Mr.  Dorrit  was  owner  of  a  large  property,  and  they 
became  very  rich. 

But  Little  Dorrit  never  forgot,  as,  sad  to  say, 
the  rest  of  the  family  did,  the  friends  who  had  been 
kind  to  them  in  their  poverty;  and  when,  in  his 
turn,  Mr.  Clennam  became  a  prisoner  in  the  Mar- 
shalsea,  Little  Dorrit  came  to  comfort  and  console 
him,  and  after  many  changes  of  fortune  she 
became  his  wife,  and  they  lived  happy  ever  after. 


THE  TOY-MAKER  AND  HIS  BLIND 
DAUGHTER. 

CALEB  PLUMMER  and  his  blind  daughter 
lived  alone  in  a  little  cracked  nutshell  of  a 
house.  They  were  toy-makers,  and  their 
house,  which  was  so  small  that  it  might  have 
been  knocked  to  pieces  with  a  hammer,  and  car- 
ried away  in  a  cart,  was  stuck  like  a  toadstool  on 
to  the  premises  of  Messrs.  Gruff  &  Tackleton, 
the  toy  merchants  for  whom  they  worked — the 
latter  of  whom  was  himself  both  Gruff  and 
Tackleton  in  one. 

I  am  saying  that  Caleb  and  his  blind  daughter 
lived  here.  I  should  say  Caleb  did,  while  his 
daughter  lived  in  an  enchanted  palace,  which  her 
father's  love  had  created  for  her.  She  did  not 
know  that  the  ceilings  were  cracked,  the  plaster 
tumbling  down,  and  the  woodwork  rotten;  that 
everything  was  old  and  ugly  and  poverty-stricken 
about  her,  and  that  her  father  was  a  gray-haired, 
stooping  old  man,  and  the  master  for  whom  they 
worked  a  hard  and  brutal  taskmaster;  oh,  dear 

(68) 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       69 

no,  she  fancied  a  pretty,  cosy,  compact  little 
home  full  of  tokens  of  a  kind  master's  care,  a 
smart,  brisk,  gallant-looking  father,  and  a  hand- 
some and  noble-looking  toy  merchant  who  was 
an  angel  of  goodness. 

This  was  all  Caleb's  doing.  When  his  blind 
daughter  was  a  baby  he  had  determined,  in  his 
great  love  and  pity  for  her,  that  her  loss  of  sight 
should  be  turned  into  a  blessing,  and  her  life  as 
happy  as  he  could  make  it.  And  she  was  happy; 
everything  about  her  she  saw  with  her  father's 
eyes,  in  the  rainbow-colored  light  with  which  it 
was  his  care  and  pleasure  to  invest  it. 

Caleb  and  his  daughter  were  at  work  together 
in  their  usual  working-room,  which  serv^ed  them 
for  their  ordinary  living-room  as  well;  and  a 
strange  place  it  was.  There  were  houses  in  it, 
finished  and  unfinished,  for  dolls  of  all  stations 
in  life.  Tenement  houses  for  dolls  of  moderate 
means;  kitchens  and  single  apartments  for  dolls 
of  the  lower  classes;  capital  town  residences  for 
dolls  of  high  estate.  Some  of  these  establish- 
ments were  already  furnished  with  a  view  to  the 
needs  of  dolls  of  little  money;  others  could  be 
fitted  on  the  most  expensive  scale,  at  a  moment's 
notice,  from  whole  shelves  of  chairs  and  tables, 
sofas,  bedsteads,  and  upholstery.     The  nobility 


70  DICKENS*  CHILDREN 

and  gentry  and  public  in  general,  for  whose  use 
these  doll-houses  were  planned,  lay,  here  and 
there,  in  baskets,  staring  straight  up  at  the  ceil- 
ing ;  but  in  showing  their  degrees  in  society,  and 
keeping  them  in  their  own  stations  (which  is 
found  to  be  exceedingly  difficult  in  real  life),  the 
makers  of  these  dolls  had  far  improved  on  nature, 
for  they,  not  resting  on  such  marks  as  satin, 
cotton-print,  and  bits  of  rag,  had  made  differences 
which  allowed  of  no  mistake.  Thus,  the  doll-lady 
of  high  rank  had  wax  limbs  of  perfect  shape ;  but 
only  she  and  those  of  her  grade;  the  next  grade 
in  the  social  scale  being  made  of  leather ;  and  the 
next  coarse  linen  stuff.  As  to  the  common-people, 
they  had  just  so  many  matches  out  of  tinder- 
boxes  for  their  arms  and  legs,  and  there  they  were 
— established  in  their  place  at  once,  beyond  the 
possibility  of  getting  out  of  it. 

There  were  various  other  samples  of  his  handi- 
craft besides  dolls  in  Caleb  Plummer's  room. 
There  were  Noah's  Arks,  in  which  the  birds  and 
beasts  were  an  uncommonly  tight  fit,  I  assure 
you ;  though  they  could  be  crammed  in,  anyhow, 
at  the  roof,  and  rattled  and  shaken  into  the 
smallest  compass.  Most  of  these  Noah's  Arks 
had  knockers  on  the  doors;  perhaps  not  exactly 
suitable  to  an  Ark  as  suggestive  of  morning  callers 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       71 

and  a  postman,  yet  a  pleasant  finish  to  the  outside 
of  the  building.  There  were  scores  of  melancholy 
little  carts,  which,  when  the  wheels  went  round, 
performed  most  doleful  music.  Many  small 
fiddles,  drums,  and  other  instruments  of  torture; 
no  end  of  cannon,  shields,  swords,  spears,  and 
guns.  There  w^ere  little  tumblers  in  red  breeches, 
incessantly  swarming  up  high  obstacles  of  red- 
tape,  and  coming  down,  head  first,  upon  the 
other  side;  and  there  were  innumerable  old 
gentlemen  of  respectable,  even  venerable,  ap- 
pearance, flying  like  crazy  people  over  pegs, 
inserted,  for  the  purpose,  in  their  own  street- 
doors.  There  were  beasts  of  all  sorts,  horses,  in 
particular,  of  every  breed,  from  the  spotted 
barrel  on  four  pegs,  with  a  small  tippet  for  a 
mane,  to  the  fine  rocking  horse  on  his  highest 
mettle. 

"You  were  out  in  the  rain  last  night  in  your 
beautiful  new  overcoat,"  said  Bertha. 

"Yes,  in  my  beautiful  new  overcoat,"  answered 
Caleb,  glancing  to  where  a  roughly-made  garment 
of  sackcloth  was  hung  up  to  dry. 

"How  glad  I  am  you  bought  it,  father." 

"And  of  such  a  tailor!  quite  a  fashionable 
tailor;  a  bright  blue  cloth,  with  bright  buttons; 
it's  a  deal  too  good  a  coat  for  me." 


72  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Too  good!"  cried  the  blind  girl,  stopping  to 
laugh  and  clap  her  hands — "as  if  anything  was 
too  good  for  my  handsome  father,  with  his 
smiling  face,  and  black  hair,  and  his  straight 
figure,  as  if  any  thing  could  be  too  good  for  my 
handsome  father!" 

"I'm  half  ashamed  to  wear  it,  though,"  said 
Caleb,  watching  the  effect  of  what  he  said  upon 
her  brightening  face;  "upon  my  word.  When  I 
hear  the  boys  and  people  say  behind  me :  'Halloa! 
Here's  a  swell!'  I  don't  know  w^hich  way  to  look. 
And  when  the  beggar  wouldn't  go  away  last 
night;  and,  when  I  said  I  was  a  very  common 
man,  said  'No,  your  honor!  Bless  your  honor, 
don't  say  that !'  I  was  quite  ashamed.  I  really 
felt  as  if  I  hadn't  a  right  to  wear  it." 

Happy  blind  girl!     How  merry  she  was  in  her 

joy-' 

"I  see  you,  father,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands, 
"as  plainly  as  if  I  had  the  eyes  I  never  want  when 
you  are  with  me.     A  blue  coat!" 

"Bright  blue,"  said  Caleb. 

"Yes,  yes!  Bright  blue!"  exclaimed  the  girl, 
turning  up  her  radiant  face;  "the  color  I  can  just 
remember  in  the  blessed  sky!  You  told  me  it 
was  blue  before!     A  bright  blue  coat " 

"Made  loose  to  the  figure,"  suggested  Caleb. 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       73 

"Yes!  loose  to  the  figure!"  cried  the  blind  girl, 
laughing  heartily;  ''and  in  it  you,  dear  father, 
with  your  meny  eye,  your  smiling  face,  your  free 
step,  and  your  dark  hair;  looking  so  young  and 
handsome!" 

"Halloa!  Halloa!"  said  Caleb.  "I  shall  be 
vain  presently." 

"I  think  you  are  already,"  cried  the  blind  girl, 
pointing  at  him,  in  her  glee.  "I  know  you, 
father!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  I've  found  you  out,  you 
see!" 

How  different  the  picture  in  her  mind  from 
Caleb,  as  he  sat  observing  her!  She  had  spoken 
of  his  free  step.  She  was  right  in  that.  For  years 
and  years  he  never  once  had  crossed  that  threshold 
at  his  own  slow  pace,  but  with  a  footfall  made 
ready  for  her  ear,  and  never  had  he,  when  his 
heart  was  heaviest,  forgotten  the  light  tread  that 
was  to  render  hers  so  cheerful  and  courageous. 

"There  we  are,"  said  Caleb,  falling  back  a  pace 
or  two  to  form  the  better  judgment  of  his  work; 
"as  near  the  real  thing  as  sixpen'orth  of  halfpence 
is  to  sixpence.  What  a  pity  that  the  whole  front 
of  the  house  opens  at  once!  If  there  was  only  a 
staircase  in  it  now,  and  regular  doors  to  the  rooms 
to  go  in  at!  but  that's  the  worst  of  my  calling. 
I'm  always  fooling  myself,  and  cheating  myself." 


74  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"You  are  speaking  quite  softly.  You  are  not 
tired,  father?" 

"Tired,"  echoed  Caleb,  with  a  great  burst  in 
his  manner,  "what  should  tire  me.  Bertha? 
/  was  never  tired.     What  does  it  mean?" 

To  give  the  greater  force  to  his  words,  he 
stopped  himself  in  an  imitation  of  two  small 
stretching  and  yawning  figures  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
who  were  shown  as  in  one  eternal  state  of  weariness 
from  the  waist  upwards;  and  hummed  a  bit  of  a 
song.  It  was  a  drinking  song,  something  about 
a  sparkling  bowl ;  and  he  sang  it  with  an  air  of  a 
devil-may-care  voice,  that  made  his  face  a 
thousand  times  more  meager  and  more  thought- 
ful than  ever. 

"What!  you're  singing,  are  you?"  said  Tackle- 
ton,  the  toy-seller  for  whom  he  worked,  putting 
his  head  in  at  the  door.  "Go  it!  /  can't 
sing." 

Nobody  would  have  thought  that  Tackleton 
could  sing.  He  hadn't  what  is  generally  termed 
a  singing  face,  by  any  means. 

"I  can't  afford  to  sing,"  said  Tackleton.  "I'm 
glad  you  can.  I  hope  you  can  afford  to  work,  too. 
Hardly  time  for  both,  I  should  think?" 

"If  you  could  only  see  him.  Bertha,  how  he's 
winking  at  me!"  whispered  Caleb.     "Such  a  man 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       75 

to  joke!  you'd  think,  if  you  didn't  know  him,  he 
was  in  earnest,  w^ouldn't  you,  now?" 

The  bhnd  girl  smiled  and  nodded. 

**I  am  thanking  you  for  the  httle  tree,  the 
beautiful  little  tree,"  replied  Bertha,  bringing 
forward  a  tiny  rose-tree  in  blossom,  which,  by  an 
innocent  story,  Caleb  had  made  her  believe  was 
her  master's  gift,  though  he  himself  had  gone 
without  a  meal  or  two  to  buy  it. 

"The  bird  that  can  sing  and  w^on't  sing  must 
be  made  to  sing,  they  say,"  grumbled  Tackleton. 
''What  about  the  owl  that  can't  sing,  and  oughtn't 
to  sing,  and  will  sing;  is  there  anything  that  he 
should  be  made  to  do?" 

"The  extent  to  which  he's  winking  at  this 
moment !"  whispered  Caleb  to  his  daughter.  "Oh, 
my  gracious!" 

"Always  merry  and  light-hearted  with  us!" 
cried  the  smiling  Bertha. 

"Oh!  you're  there,  are  you?"  answered  Tackle- 
ton.     "Poor  idiot!" 

He  really  did  believe  she  was  an  idiot;  and  he 
foimded  the  belief,  I  can't  say  whether  consciously 
or  not,  upon  her  being  fond  of  him. 

"Well!  and  being  there — how  are  you?"  said 
Tackleton,  in  his  cross  way. 

"Oh!  well;  quite  well.     And  as  happy  as  even 


76  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

you  can  wish  me  to  be.  As  happy  as  you  would 
make  the  whole  world,  if  you  could!" 

*Toor  idiot !"  muttered  Tackleton.  "No  gleam 
of  reason !     Not  a  gleam !" 

The  blind  girl  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it ;  held 
it  for  a  moment  in  her  own  two  hands;  and  laid 
her  cheek  against  it  tenderly,  before  releasing  it. 
There  was  such  unspeakable  affection  and  such 
fervent  gratitude  in  the  act,  that  Tackleton  him- 
self was  moved  to  say,  in  a  milder  growl  than 
usual : 

"What's  the  matter  now?" 

"Bertha!"  said  Tackleton,  assuming,  for  once, 
a  little  cordiality.     "Come  here." 

"Oh!  I  can  come  straight  to  you.  You  needn't 
guide  me,"  she  rejoined. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret.  Bertha?" 

"If  you  will!"  she  answered,  eagerly. 

How  bright  the  darkened  face!  How  adorned 
with  light  the  listening  head ! 

"This  is  the  day  on  which  little  what's-her- 
name,  the  spoilt  child,  Peerybingle's  wife,  pays 
her  regular  visit  to  you — makes  her  ridiculous 
picnic  here;  ain't  it?"  said  Tackleton,  with  a 
strong  expression  of  distaste  for  the  whole 
concern. 

"Yes,"  replied  Bertha.     "This  is  the  day." 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       77 

"I  thought  so!"  said  Tackleton.  "I  should  like 
to  join  the  party." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  father!"  cried  the  blind 
girl  in  delight. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  hear  it,"  murmured  Caleb,  with  the 
fixed  look  of  a  sleep-walker  "but  I  do  not  believe 
it.     It's  one  of  my  lies,  I've  no  doubt." 

"You  see  I — I  want  to  bring  the  Peerybingles 
a  little  more  into  company  with  May  Fielding,** 
said  Tackleton.  "I  am  going  to  be  married  to 
May." 

"Married!"  cried  the  blind  girl,  starting  from 
him. 

"She's  such  a  confounded  idiot,"  muttered 
Tackleton,  "that  I  was  afraid  she'd  never  under- 
stand me.  Yes,  Bertha!  Married!  Church,  par- 
son, clerk,  glass-coach,  bells,  breakfast,  bride- 
cake, favors,  marrow-bones,  cleavers,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  tomfoolery.  A  w^edding,  you  know; 
a  wedding.     Don't  you  know  what  a  wedding  is?" 

"I  know,"  replied  the  bhnd  girl,  in  a  gentle  tone. 
"I  understand!" 

"Do  you?"  muttered  Tackleton.  "It's  more 
than  I  expected.  Well,  on  that  account  I  want 
you  to  join  the  party,  and  to  bring  May  and  her 
mother.  I'll  send  a  little  something  or  other, 
before  the  afternoon.     A  cold  leg  of  mutton,  or 


78  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

some    comfortable    trifle    of    that    sort.     You'll 
expect  me?" 

''Yes,"  she  answered. 

She  had  drooped  her  head,  and  turned  away; 
and  so  stood,  with  her  hands  crossed,  musing. 

"I  don't  think  you  will,"  muttered  Tackleton, 
looking  at  her;  "for  you  seem  to  have  forgotten 
all  about  it  already.     Caleb!" 

"I  may  venture  to  say,  I'm  here,  I  suppose," 
thought  Caleb.     "Sir!" 

"Take  care  she  don't  forget  what  I've  been 
saying  to  her." 

''She  never  forgets,"  returned  Caleb.  "It's 
one  of  the  few  things  she  ain't  clever  in." 

"Eveiy  man  thinks  his  own  geese  swans," 
observed  the  toy  merchant,  with  a  shrug.  "Poor 
devil!" 

Having  delivered  himself  of  which  remark  with 
infinite  contempt,  old  Gruff  &  Tackleton  withdrew. 

Bertha  remained  where  he  had  left  her,  lost  in 
meditation.  The  gaiety  had  vanished  from  her 
downcast  face,  and  it  was  very  sad.  Three  or 
four  times  she  shook  her  head,  as  if  bewailing 
some  remembrance  or  some  loss;  but  her  sorrow- 
ful reflections  found  no  vent  in  words. 

"Father,  I  am  lonely  in  the  dark.  I  want  my 
eyes;  my  patient,   willing  eyes." 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       79 

''Here  they  are,"  said  Caleb.  "Always  ready. 
They  are  more  yours  than  mine,  Bertha,  any  hour 
in  the  four-and-twenty.  What  shall  your  eyes 
do  for  you,  dear?" 

"Look  round  the  room,  father." 

"All  right,"  said  Caleb.  "No  sooner  said  than 
done,  Bertha." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"It's  much  the  same  as  usual,"  said  Caleb. 
"Homely,  but  very  snug.  The  gay  colors  on  the 
walls ;  the  bright  flowers  on  the  plates  and  dishes ; 
the  shining  wood,  where  there  are  beams  or  panels ; 
the  general  cheerfulness  and  neatness  of  the  build- 
ing, make  it  very  pretty." 

Cheerful  and  neat  it  was,  wherever  Bertha's 
hands  could  busy  themselves.  But  nowhere  else 
were  cheerfulness  and  neatness  possible,  in  the 
crazy  shed  which  Caleb's  fancy  so  transformed. 

"You  have  your  working  dress  on,  and  are  not 
so  gay  as  when  you  wear  the  handsome  coat?" 
said  Bertha,  touching  him. 

"Not  quite  so  gay,"  answered  Caleb.  "Pretty 
brisk  though." 

"Father,"  said  the  blind  girl,  drawing  close  to 
his  side  and  stealing  one  arm  round  his  neck, 
"tell  me  something  about  May.     She  is  very  fair." 

"She   is,    indeed,"   said   Caleb.     And  she  was 


8o  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

indeed.     It  was  quite  a  rare  thing  to  Caleb  not  to 
have  to  draw  on  his  invention. 

"Her  hair  is  dark,"  said  Bertha,  pensively, 
"darker  than  mine.  Her  voice  is  sweet  and 
musical  I  know.  I  have  often  loved  to  hear  it. 
Her  shape — " 

'     "There's  not  a  doll's  in  all  the  room  to  equal  it," 
said  Caleb.     "And  her  eyCvS — " 

He  stopped ;  for  Bertha  had  drawn  closer  round 
his  neck;  and,  from  the  arm  that  clung  about 
him,  came  a  warning  pressure  which  he  under- 
stood too  well. 

He  coughed  a  moment,  hammered  for  a  moment, 
and  then  fell  back  upon  the  song  about  the  spark- 
ling bowl;  the  song  which  helped  him  through 
all  such  difficulties. 

"Our  friend,  father;  the  one  who  has  helped  us 
so  many  times,  Mr.  Tackleton.  I  am  never  tired 
you  know,  of  hearing  about  him.  Now  was  I, 
ever?"  she  said,  hastily. 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Caleb.  "And  with 
reason." 

"Ah!  with  how  much  reason?"  cried  the  blind 
girl,  with  such  fervency  that  Caleb,  though  his 
motives  were  pure,  could  not  endure  to  meet  her 
face,  but  dropped  his  eyes,  as  if  she  could  have 
read  in  them  his  innocent  deceit. 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       8i 

"Then  tell  me  again  about  him,  dear  father," 
said  Bertha.  "Many  times  again!  His  face  is 
good,  kind,  and  tender.  Honest  and  true,  I  am 
sure  it  is.  The  manly  heart  that  tries  to  cloak 
all  favors  with  a  show  of  roughness  and  unwilling- 
ness beats  in  its  every  look  and  glance." 

"And  makes  it  noble,"  added  Caleb  in  his  quiet 
desperation. 

"And  makes  it  noble!"  cried  the  blind  girl. 
"He  is  older  than  May,  father?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  Caleb,  reluctantly.  "He's  a 
little  older  than  May,  but  that  don't  signify." 

"Bertha,"  said  Caleb  softly,  "what  has  hap- 
pened? How  changed  you  are,  my  darling,  in  a 
few  hours — since  this  morning.  You  silent  and 
dull  all  day!     What  is  it?     Tell  me!" 

"Oh  father,  father!"  cried  the  blind  girl,  burst- 
ing into  tears.     "Oh,  my  hard,  hard  fate!" 

Caleb  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  before  he 
answered  her. 

"But  think  how  cheerful  and  how  happy  you 
have  been.  Bertha!  How  good,  and  how  much 
loved,  by  many  people." 

"That  strikes  me  to  the  heart,  dear  father! 
Always  so  mindful  of  me !     Always  so  kind  to  me !" 

Caleb  was  very  much  perplexed  to  understand 
her. 


82  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"To  be — to  be  blind,  Bertha,  my  poor  dear," 
he  faltered,  **is  a  great  affliction;  but " 

"I  have  never  felt  it!"  cried  the  blind  girl. 
"I  have  never  felt  it  in  its  fullness.  Never!  I 
have  sometimes  wished  that  I  could  see  you,  or 
could  see  him;  only  once,  dear  father;  only  for 
one  little  minute.  But,  father!  Oh,  my  good, 
gentle  father,  bear  with  me,  if  I  am  wicked!"  said 
the  blind  girl.  "This  is  not  the  sorrow  that  so 
weighs  me  down!" 

"Bertha,  my  dear!"  said  Caleb,  "I  have  some- 
thing on  my  mind  I  want  to  tell  you,  while  we  are 
alone.  Hear  me  kindly!  I  have  a  confession  to 
make  to  you,  my  darling." 

"A  confession,  father?" 

"I  have  wandered  from  the  truth  and  lost 
myself,  my  child,"  said  Caleb,  with  a  pitiable  look 
on  his  bewildered  face.  "I  have  wandered  from 
the  truth,  intending  to  be  kind  to  you ;  and  have 
been  cruel." 

She  turned  her  wonder-stricken  face  towards 
him,  and  repeated,  "Cruel!  He  cruel  to  me!" 
cried  Bertha,  with  a  smile  of  incredulity. 

"Not  meaning  it,  my  child,"  said  Caleb.  "But 
I  have  been;  though  I  never  suspected  it  till 
yesterday.  My  dear  blind  daughter,  hear  me  and 
forgive  me !     The  world  you  live  in,  heart  of  mine, 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       83 

doesn't  exist  as  I  have  represented  it.  The  eyes 
you  have  ti*usted  in  have  been  false  to  you." 

She  turned  her  wonder-stricken  face  towards 
him  still. 

"Your  road  in  life  was  rough,  my  poor  one,"  said 
Caleb,  "and  I  meant  to  smooth  it  for  you.  I  have 
altered  objects,  invented  many  things  that  never 
have  been,  to  make  you  happier.  I  have  had 
concealments  from  you,  put  deceptions  on  you, 
God  forgive  me !  and  surrounded  you  with  fancies.' 

"But  living  people  are  not  fancies?"  she  said 
hurriedly,  and  turning  very  pale,  and  still  retiring 
from  him.     "You  can't  change  them." 

"I  have  done  so.  Bertha,"  pleaded  Caleb. 
"There  is  one  person  that  you  know,  my  Dove — " 

"Oh,  father!  why  do  you  say  I  know?"  she 
answered  in  a  tone  of  keen  reproach.  "What  and 
whom  do  I  know!  I,  who  have  no  leader!  I,  so 
miserably  blind!" 

In  the  anguish  of  her  heart  she  stretched  out 
her  hands,  as  if  she  were  groping  her  way;  then 
spread  them,  in  a  manner  most  forlorn  and  sad, 
upon  her  face. 

"The  marriage  that  takes  place  to-day,"  said 
Caleb,  "is  with  a  stem,  sordid,  grinding  man. 
A  hard  master  to  you  and  me,  my  dear,  for  many 
years.     Ugly  in  his  looks  and  in  his  nature.     Cold 


84  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

and  callous  always.  Unlike  what  I  have  painted 
him  to  you  in  everything,  my  child.  In  every- 
thing." 

"Oh,  why,"  cried  the  blind  girl,  tortured,  as  it 
seemed,  almost  beyond  endurance,  "why  did  you 
ever  do  this?  Why  did  you  ever  fill  my  heart  so 
full,  and  then  come  in,  like  death,  and  tear  away 
the  objects  of  my  love?  Oh,  heaven,  how  blind 
I  am!     How  helpless  and  alone!" 

Her  afflicted  father  hung  his  head,  and  ofifered 
no  reply  but  in  his  grief. 

"Tell  me  what  my  home  is.     What  it  truly  is." 

"It  is  a  poor  place.  Bertha;  very  poor  and  bare 
indeed.  The  house  will  scarcely  keep  out  wind 
and  rain  another  winter.  It  is  as  roughly  shielded 
from  the  weather,  Bertha,  as  your  poor  father  in 
his  sackcloth  coat." 

"Those  presents  that  I  took  such  care  of,  that 
came  almost  at  my  wish,  and  were  so  dearly  wel- 
come to  me,"  she  said,  trembling ;  "where  did  they 
come  from?" 

Caleb  did  not  answer.  She  knew  already,  and 
was  silent. 

"I  see,  I  understand,"  said  Bertha,  "and  now 
I  am  looking  at  you,  at  my  kind,  loving  com- 
passionate father,  tell  me  what  is  he  like?" 

"An  old  man,  my  child ;  thin,  bent,  gray-haired, 


THE  TOY-MAKER'S  DAUGHTER       85 

worn-out  with  hard  work  and  sorrow;  a  weak, 
fooHsh,  deceitful  old  man." 

The  blind  girl  threw  herself  on  her  knees  before 
him,  and  took  his  gray  head  in  her  arms.  **It  is 
my  sight,  it  is  my  sight  restored,"  she  cried. 
"I  have  been  blind,  but  now  I  see;  I  have  never 
till  now  truly  seen  my  father.  Does  he  think  that 
there  is  a  gay,  handsome  father  in  this  earth  that 
I  could  love  so  dearly,  cherish  so  devotedly,  as 
this  worn  and  gray-headed  old  man?  Father 
there  is  not  a  gray  hair  on  your  head  that  shall  i3e 
forgotten  in  my  prayers  and  thanks  to  heaven." 

"My  Bertha!"  sobbed  Caleb,  "and  the  brisk 
smart  father  in  the  blue  coat — he's  gone,  my 
child." 

"Dearest  father,  no,  he's  not  gone,  nothing  is 
gone,  everything  I  loved  and  believed  in  is  here  in 
this  worn,  old  father  of  mine,  and  more — oh,  so 
much  more,  too!  I  have  been  happy  and  con- 
tented, but  I  shall  be  happier  and  more  contented 
still,  now  that  I  know  what  you  are.  I  am  not 
blind,  father,  any  longer." 


VI. 
LITTLE  NELL. 

THE  house  where  little  Nell  and  her  grand- 
father lived  was  one  of  those  places  where 
old  and  curious  things  were  kept,  one  of 
those  old  houses  which  seem  to  crouch  in  odd 
comers  of  the  town,  and  to  hide  their  musty- 
treasures  from  the  public  eye  in  jealousy  and 
distrust.  There  were  suits  of  mail  standing  like 
ghosts  in  armor,  here  and  there;  curious  carv- 
ings brought  from  monkish  cloisters;  rusty 
weapons  of  various  kinds;  distorted  figures  in 
china,  and  wood,  and  iron,  and  ivory;  tapestry, 
and  strange  furniture  that  might  have  been  de- 
signed in  dreams;  and  in  the  old,  dark,  dismal 
rooms  there  lived  alone  together  the  man  and  a 
child — his  grandchild.  Little  Nell.  Solitary  and 
dull  as  was  her  life,  the  innocent  and  cheerful 
spirit  of  the  child  found  happiness  in  all  things, 
and  through  the  dim  rooms  of  the  old  curiosity 
shop  Little  Nell  went  singing,  moving  with  gay 
and  lightsome  step. 

But  gradually  over  the  old  man,  whom  she  so 
tenderly  loved,   there  stole  a  sad  change.     He 

(86) 


Little  Nell  and  Her  Grandfather. 


Page  86 


LITTLE  NELL  87 

became  thoughtful,  sad  and  wretched.  He  had 
no  sleep  or  rest  but  that  which  he  took  by  day  in 
his  easy-chair;  for  every  night,  and  all  night  long, 
he  was  away  from  home.  To  the  child  it  seemed 
that  her  grandfather's  love  for  her  increased,  even 
with  the  hidden  grief  by  which  she  saw  him  struck 
down.  And  to  see  him  sorrowful,  and  not  to 
know  the  cause  of  his  sorrow ;  to  see  him  growing- 
pale  and  weak  under  his  trouble  of  mind,  so 
weighed  upon  her  gentle  spirit  that  at  times  she 
felt  as  though  her  heart  must  break. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  the  old  man's 
feeble  frame  could  bear  up  no  longer  against  his 
hidden  care.  A  raging  fever  seized  him,  and,  as 
he  lay  delirious  or  insensible  through  many  weeks, 
Nell  learned  that  the  house  which  sheltered  them 
was  theirs  no  longer ;  that  in  the  future  they  would 
be  very  poor;  that  they  would  scarcely  have 
bread  to  eat.  At  length  the  old  man  began  to 
mend,  but  his  mind  was  weakened. 

He  would  sit  for  hours  together,  with  Nell's 
small  hand  in  his,  playing  with  the  fingers,  and 
sometimes  stopping  to  smooth  her  hair  or  kiss 
her  brow ;  and  when  he  saw  that  tears  were  glisten- 
ing in  her  eyes  he  would  look  amazed.  As  the 
time  drew  near  when  they  must  leave  the  house, 
he  made  no  reference  to  the  necessity  of  finding 


88  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

other  shelter.  An  indistinct  idea  he  had  that  the 
child  was  desolate  and  in  need  of  help ;  though  he 
seemed  unable  to  understand  their  real  position 
more  distinctly.  But  a  change  came  upon  him 
one  evening,  as  he  and  Nell  sat  silently  together. 

"Let  us  speak  softly,  Nell,"  he  said.  "Hush! 
for  if  they  knew  our  purpose  they  would  say  that 
I  was  mad,  and  take  thee  from  me.  We  will  not 
stop  here  another  day.  We  will  travel  afoot 
through  the  fields  and  woods,  and  trust  ourselves 
to  God  in  the  places  where  He  dwells.  To-morrow 
morning,  dear,  we'll  turn  our  faces  from  this  scene 
of  sorrow,  and  be  as  free  and  happy  as  the  birds." 

The  child's  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and  con- 
fidence. She  had  no  thought  of  hunger,  or  cold, 
or  thirst,  or  suffering.  To  her  it  seemed  that  they 
might  beg  their  way  from  door  to  door  in  happi- 
ness, so  that  they  were  together. 

When  the  day  began  to  glimmer  they  stole  out 
of  the  house,  and,  passing  into  the  street,  stood 
still. 

"Which  way?"  asked  the  child. 

The  old  man  looked  doubtfully  and  helplessly 
at  her,  and  shook  his  head.  It  was  plain  that  she 
was  thenceforth  his  guide  and  leader.  The  child 
felt  it,  but  had  no  doubts  or  misgivings,  and, 
putting  her  hand  in  his,  led  him  gently  away. 


LITTLE  NELL  89 

Forth  from  the  city,  while  it  yet  was  asleep  went 
the  two  poor  wanderers,  going,  they  knew  not 
whither. 

They  passed  through  the  long,  deserted  streets, 
in  the  glad  light  of  early  morning,  until  these 
streets  dwindled  away,  and  the  open  country  was 
about  them.  They  walked  all  day,  and  slept 
that  night  at  a  small  cottage  where  beds  were  let 
to  travelers.  The  sun  was  setting  on  the  second 
day  of  their  journey,  and  they  were  jaded  and 
worn  out  with  walking,  when,  following  a  path 
which  led  through  a  churchyard  to  the  town  where 
they  were  to  spend  the  night,  they  fell  in  with  two 
traveling  showmen  the  exhibitors  or  keepers 
of  a  Punch  and  Judy  show.  These  two  men 
raised  their  eyes  when  the  old  man  and  his  young 
companion  were  close  upon  them.  One  of  them, 
the  real  exhibitor,  no  doubt,  w^as  a  little,  merry- 
faced  man  with  a  twinkling  eye  and  a  red  nose, 
who  seemed  to  be  something  like  old  Punch  him- 
self. The  other — that  was  he  who  took  the 
money — had  rather  a  careful  and  cautious  look, 
which  perhaps  came  from  his  business  also. 

The  merry  man  was  the  first  to  greet  the 
strangers  with  a  nod;  and  following  the  old  man's 
eyes,  he  observed  that  perhaps  that  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  seen  a  Punch  off  the  stage. 


90  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Why  do  you  come  here  to  do  this?"  said  the 
old  man  sitting  down  beside  them,  and  looking  at 
the  figures  with  extreme  delight. 

"Why,  you  see,"  rejoined  the  little  man,  "we're 
putting  up  for  to-night  at  the  public  house  yonder, 
and  it  wouldn't  do  to  let  'em  see  the  present  com- 
pany undergoing  repair." 

"No!"  cried  the  old  man,  making  signs  to  Nell 
to  listen,  "why  not,  eh?  why  not?" 

"Because  it  would  destroy  all  the  reality  of  the 
show  and  take  away  all  the  interest,  wouldn't  it?" 
replied  the  little  man.  "Would  you  care  a 
ha'penny  for  the  Lord  Chancellor  if  you  know'd 
him  in  private  and  without  his  wig? — certainly 
not."  * 

"Good!"  said  the  old  man,  venturing  to  touch 
one  of  the  puppets,  and  drawing  away  his  hand 
with  a  shrill  laugh.  "Are  you  going  to  show  'em 
to-night?  are  you?" 

"That  is  the  puipose,  governor,"  replied  the 
other,  "and  unless  I'm  much  mistaken,  Tommy 
Codlin  is  a-calculating  at  this  minute  what  we've 
lost  through  your  coming  upon  us.  Cheer  up, 
Tommy,  it  can't  be  much." 

The  little  man  accompanied  these  latter  words 

♦The  Lord  Chancellor,  it  may  be  explained,  is  the  highest  judge  in  the 
courts  of  England;  and  when  in  court  always  wears  a  great  wig  and  a 
robe. 


LITTLE  NELL  91 

with  a  wink,  expressive  of  the  estimate  he  had 
formed  of  the  travelers'  pocketbook. 

To  this  Mr.  CodHn,  who  had  a  surly,  grumbling 
manner,  rephed,  as  he  twitched  Punch  off  the 
tombstone  and  flung  him  into  the  box : 

"I  don't  care  if  we  haven't  lost  a  farden,  but 
you're  too  free.  If  you  stood  in  front  of  the 
curtain  and  see  the  public's  faces  as  I  do,  you'd 
know  human  natur'  better." 

Turning  over  the  figures  in  the  box  like  one  who 
knew  and  despised  them,  Mr.  Codlin  drew  one 
forth  and  held  it  up  for  the  inspection  of  his  friend  : 

"Look  here ;  here's  all  this  Judy's  clothes  falling 
to  pieces  again.  You  haven't  got  a  needle  and 
thread,  I  suppose?" 

The  little  man  shook  his  head  and  scratched  it 
sadly,  as  he  contemplated  this  condition  of  a 
principal  performer  in  his  show.  Seeing  that 
they  were  at  a  loss,  the  child  said,  timidly: 

"I  have  a  needle,  sir,  in  my  basket,  and  thread 
too.  Will  you  let  me  try  to  mend  it  for  you? 
I  think  I  could  do  it  neater  than  you  could." 

Even  Mr.  Codlin  had  nothing  to  urge  against  a 
proposal  so  seasonable.  Nell,  kneeling  down 
beside  the  box,  was  soon  busily  engaged  in  her 
task,  and  finished  it  in  a  wonderful  way. 

While  she  was  thus  at  work,  the  merry  little 


92  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

man  looked  at  her  with  an  interest  which  did  not 
appear  to  be  any  less  when  he  glanced  at  her 
helpless  companion.  When  she  had  finished  her 
work  he  thanked  her,  and  asked  to  what  place 
they  were  traveling. 

"N — ^no  farther  to-night,  I  think,"  said  the 
child,  looking  toward  her  grandfather. 

"If  you're  wanting  a  place  to  stop  at,"  the  man 
remarked,  "I  should  advise  you  to  take  up  at  the 
same  house  with  us.  That's  it.  The  long  low, 
white  house  there.     It's  very  cheap." 

They  went  to  the  little  inn,  and  when  they  had 
been  refreshed,  the  whole  house  hurried  away  into 
an  empty  stable  where  the  show  stood,  and  where, 
by  the  light  of  a  few  flaring  candles  stuck  round 
a  hoop  which  hung  by  a  line  from  the  ceiling,  it 
was  to  be  forthwith  shown. 

And  now  Mr.  Thomas  Codlin,  after  blowing 
away  at  the  Pan's  pipes,  took  his  station  on  one 
side  of  the  curtain  which  concealed  the  mover  of 
the  figures,  and,  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
prepared  to  reply  to  all  questions  and  remarks 
of  Punch,  and  to  make  a  pretence  of  being  his 
most  intimate  private  friend,  of  believing  in  him 
to  the  fullest  and  most  unlimited  extent,  of 
knowing  that  Mr.  Punch  enjoyed  day  and  night 
a  merry  and  glorious  life  in  that  temple,  and  that 


LITTLE  NELL  93 

he  was  at  all  times  and  under  every  circumstance 
the  same  wise  and  joyful  person  that  all  present 
then  beheld  him. 

The  whole  performance  was  applauded  until 
the  old  stable  rang,  and  gifts  were  showered  in 
with  a  liberality  which  testified  yet  more  strongly 
to  the  general  delight.  Among  the  laughter  none 
was  more  loud  and  frequent  than  the  old  man's. 
Nell's  was  unheard,  for  she,  poor  child,  with  her 
head  drooping  on  his  shoulder,  had  fallen  asleep, 
and  slept  too  soundly  to  be  roused  by  any  of  his 
efforts  to  awaken  her  to  a  part  in  his  glee. 

The  supper  was  very  good,  but  she  was  too 
tired  to  eat,  and  yet  w^ould  not  leave  the  old  man 
until  she  had  kissed  him  in  his  bed.  He,  happily 
insensible  to  every  care  and  anxiety,  sat  listening 
with  a  vacant  smile  and  admiring  face  to  all  that 
his  new  friends  said;  and  it  was  not  until  they 
retired  yawning  to  their  room  that  he  followed 
the  child  up-stairs. 

She  had  a  little  money,  but  it  was  very  little; 
and  when  that  was  gone  they  must  begin  to  beg. 
There  was  one  piece  of  gold  among  it,  and  a  need 
might  come  when  its  worth  to  them  would  be  in- 
creased a  hundred  times.  It  would  be  best  to  hide 
this  coin,  and  never  show  it  unless  their  case  was 
entirely  desperate,  and  nothing  else  was  left  them. 


94  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

Her  resolution  taken,  she  sewed  the  piece  of 
gold  into  her  dress,  and  going  to  bed  with  a  lighter 
heart  sunk  into  a  deep  slumber. 

"And  where  are  you  going  to-day?"  said  the 
little  man  the  following  morning,  addressing  him- 
self to  Nell. 

"Indeed  I  hardly  know — we  have  not  made  up 
our  minds  yet,"  replied  the  child. 

"We're  going  on  to  the  races,"  said  the  little 
man.  "If  that's  your  way  and  you  like  to  have 
us  for  company,  let  us  travel  together.  If  you 
prefer  going  alone,  only  say  the  word  and  you'll 
find  that  we  sha'n't  trouble  you.' 

"We'll  go  with  you, "  said  the  old  man.  "Nell— 
with  them,  with  them." 

The  child  thought  for  a  moment,  and  knowing 
that  she  must  shortly  beg,  and  could  scarcely  hope 
to  do  so  at  a  better  place  than  where  crowds  of 
rich  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  met  together  for 
enjoyment,  determined  to  go  w4th  these  men  so 
far.  She  therefore  thanked  the  little  man  for  his 
offer,  and  said,  glancing  timidly  toward  his  friend, 
that  they  would  if  there  was  no  objection  to  their 
staying  with  them  as  far  as  the  race-town. 

And  with  these  men  they  traveled  forward  on 
the  following  day. 

They  made  two  long  days'  journey  with  their 


LITTLE  NELL 


95 


new  companions,  passing  through  villages  and 
towns,  and  meeting  upon  one  occasion  with  two 
young  people  walking  upon  stilts,  who  were  also 
going  to  the  races. 

And  now  they  had  come  to  the  time  when  they 
must  beg  their  bread.  Soon  after  sunrise  the 
second  morning,  she  stole  out,  and,  rambling  into 
some  fields  at  a  short  distance,  plucked  a  few  wild 
roses  and  such  humble  flowers,  purposing  to  make 
them  into  little  nosegays  and  offer  them  to  the 
ladies  in  the  carriages  when  the  company  arrived. 
Her  thoughts  were  not  idle  while  she  was  thus 
bus}^ ;  when  she  returned  and  was  seated  beside 
the  old  man,  tying  her  flowers  together,  while  the 
two  men  lay  dozing  in  the  comer,  she  plucked  him 
by  the  sleeve,  and,  slightly  glancing  toward  them, 
said  in  a  low  voice : 

* 'Grandfather,  don't  look  at  those  I  talk  of,  and 
don't  seem  as  if  I  spoke  of  anything  but  what  I  am 
about.  What  was  that  you  told  me  before  we 
left  the  old  house?  That  if  they  knew  what  we 
were  going  to  do,  they  would  say  that  you  were 
mad,  and  part  us?" 

The  old  man  turned  to  her  with  a  look  of  wild 
terror ;  but  she  checked  him  by  a  look,  and  bid- 
ding him  hold  some  flowers  while  she  tied  them 
up,  and  so  bringing  her  lips  closer  to  his  ear,  said : 


96  DICKENS'  CHILDREN  ' 

"I  know  that  was  what  you  told  me.  You 
needn't  speak,  dear.  I  recollect  it  very  well.  It 
was  not  likely  that  I  should  forget  it.  Grand- 
father, I  have  heard  these  men  say  they  think  that 
we  have  secretly  left  our  friends,  and  mean  to  carry 
us  before  some  gentleman  and  have  us  taken  care 
of  and  sent  back.  If  you  let  your  hand  tremble 
so,  we  can  never  get  away  from  them,  but  if  you're 
only  quiet  now,  we  shall  do  so  easily." 

"How?"  muttered  the  old  man.  ''Dear  Nell, 
how?  They  will  shut  me  up  in  a  stone-room, 
dark  and  cold,  and  chain  me  up  to  the  wall,  Nell — 
flog  me  with  whips,  and  never  let  me  see  thee 
more!" 

"You're  trembling  again,"  said  the  child. 
"Keep  close  to  me  all  day  Never  mind  them, 
don't  look  at  them,  but  me.  I  shall  find  a  time 
when  we  can  steal  away.  When  I  do,  mind  you 
come  with  me,  and  do  not  stop  or  speak  a  word. 
Hush!    That's  all." 

"Halloo!  what  are  you  up  to,  my  dear?"  said 
Mr.  Codlin,  raising  his  head,  and  yawning. 

"Making  some  nosegays,"  the  child  replied; 
"I  am  going  to  try  to  sell  some,  these  three  days 
of  the  races.  Will  you  have  one — as  a  present, 
I  mean?" 

Mr.  Codlin  would  have  risen  to  receive  it,  but 


LITTLE  NELL  97 

the  child  hurried  tovvai'd  him  and  placed  it  in  hi? 
hand,  and  he  stuck  it  in  his  button-hole. 

As  the  morning  wore  on,  the  tents  at  the  race- 
course assumed  a  gayer  and  more  brilliant  appear- 
ance, and  long  lines  of  carriages  came  rolling  softly 
on  the  turf.  Black-eyed  gipsy  girls,  their  heads 
covered  with  showy  handkerchiefs,  came  out  to 
tell  fortunes,  and  pale,  slender  women  with 
wasted  faces  followed  the  footsteps  of  conjurers, 
and  counted  the  sixpences  with  anxious  eyes  long 
before  they  were  gained.  As  many  of  the  children 
as  could  be  kept  within  bounds  were  stowed  away, 
with  all  the  other  signs  of  dirt  and  poverty,  among 
the  donkeys,  carts,  and  horses;  and  as  many  as 
could  not  be  thus  disposed  of  ran  in  and  out  in  all 
directions,  crept  between  people's  legs  and  car- 
riage wheels,  and  came  forth  unharmed  from  under 
horses'  hoofs.  The  dancing-dogs,  the  stilts,  the 
little  lady  and  the  tall  man,  and  all  the  other 
attractions,  with  organs  out  of  number  and  bands 
innumerable,  came  out  from  the  holes  and  corners 
in  which  they  had  passed  the  night,  and  flourished 
boldly  in  the  sun. 

Along  the  uncleared  course.  Short  led  his  party, 
sounding  the  brazen  trumpet  and  speaking  in 
the  voice  of  Punch ;  and  at  his  heels  went  Thomas 
Codlin,  bearing  the  show  as  usual,  and  keeping 


o8  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

his  eye  on  Nell  and  her  grandfather,  as  they 
racner  lingered  in  the  rear.  The  child  bore  upon 
her  arm  the  little  basket  with  her  flowers,  and 
sometimes  stopped,  with  timid  and  modest  looks, 
to  offer  them  at  some  gay  carriage ;  but  alas !  there 
were  many  bolder  beggars  there,  gipsies  who 
promised  husbands,  and  others  skillful  in  their 
trade;  and  although  some  ladies  smiled  gently 
as  they  shook  their  heads,  and  others  cried  to  the 
gentlemen  beside  them,  "See  what  a  pretty  face!" 
they  let  the  pretty  face  pass  on,  and  never  thought 
that  it  looked  tired  or  hungry. 

There  was  but  one  lady  who  seemed  to  under- 
stand the  child,  and  she  was  one  who  sat  alone  in 
a  handsome  carriage,  while  two  young  men  in 
dashing  clothes,  who  had  just  stepped  out  from  it, 
talked  and  laughed  loudly  at  a  little  distance, 
appearing  to  forget  her,  quite.  There  were  many 
ladies  all  around,  but  they  turned  their  backs,  or 
looked  another  way,  or  at  the  two  young  men 
(not  unfavorably  at  them),  and  left  her  to  herself. 
The  lady  motioned  away  a  gipsy  woman,  eager 
to  tell  her  fortune,  saying  that  it  was  told  already 
and  had  been  for  some  years,  but  called  the  child 
toward  her,  and,  taking  her  flowers,  put  money 
into  her  trembling  hand,  and  bade  her  go  home 
and  keep  at  home. 


LITTLE  NELL  99 

Many  a  time  they  went  up  and  down  those  long, 
long  lines,  seeing  everything  but  the  horses  and 
the  race ;  when  the  bell  rung  to  clear  the  course, 
going  back  to  rest  among  the  carts  and  donkeys, 
and  not  coming  out  again  until  the  heat  was  over. 
Many  a  time,  too,  was  Punch  displayed  in  the 
full  glory  of  his  humor ;  but  all  this  while  the  eye  of 
Thomas  Codlin  was  upon  them,  and  to  escape 
without  notice  was  almost  impossible. 

At  length,  late  in  the  day,  Mr.  Codlin  pitched 
the  show  in  a  spot  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
crowd,  and  the  Punch  and  Judy  were  surrounded 
by  people  who  were  w^atching  the  performance. 

Short  was  moving  the  images,  and  knocking 
them  in  the  fury  of  the  combat  against  the  sides 
of  the  show,  the  people  were  looking  on  with 
laughing  faces,  and  Mr.  Codlin 's  face  showed  a 
grim  smile  as  his  roving  eye  detected  the  hands  of 
thieves  in  the  crowd  going  into  waistcoat  pockets. 
If  Nell  and  her  grandfather  were  ever  to  get  away 
unseen,  that  was  the  very  moment.  They  seized 
it,  and  fled. 

They  made  a  path  through  booths  and  carriages 
and  throngs  of  people,  and  never  once  stopped  to 
look  behind.  The  bell  was  ringing,  and  the 
course  was  cleared  by  the  time  they  reached  the 
ropes,    but    they    dashed    across    it,    paying    no 


loo  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

attention  to  the  shouts  and  screeching  that 
assailed  them  for  breaking  in  it,  and,  creeping 
under  the  brow  of  the  hill  at  a  quick  pace,  made 
for  the  open  fields.  At  last  they  were  free  from 
Codlin  and  Short. 

That  night  they  reached  a  little  village  in  a 
woody  hollow.  The  village  schoolmaster,  a  good 
and  gentle  man,  pitying  their  weariness,  and 
attracted  by  the  child's  sweetness  and  modesty, 
gave  them  a  lodging  for  the  night ;  nor  would  he 
let  them  leave  him  until  two  days  more  had 
passed. 

They  journeyed  on,  when  the  time  came  that 
they  must  wander  forth  again,  by  pleasant 
country  lanes;  and  as  they  passed,  watching  the 
birds  that  perched  and  twittered  in  the  branches 
overhead,  or  listening  to  the  songs  that  broke  the 
happy  silence,  their  hearts  were  peaceful  and  free 
from  care.  But  by-and-by  they  came  to  a  long 
winding  road  which  lengthened  out  far  into  the 
distance,  and  though  they  still  kept  on,  it  was  at 
a  much  slower  pace,  for  they  were  now  very 
weary. 

The  afternoon  had  worn  away  into  a  beautiful 
evening,  when  they  arrived  at  a  point  where  the 
road  made  a  sharp  turn  and  struck  across  a 
common.     On  the  border  of  this  common,  and 


LITTLE  NELL  loi 

close  to  the  hedge  which  divided  it  from  the  culti- 
vated fields,  a  caravan  was  drawn  up  to  rest; 
upon  which  they  came  so  suddenly  that  they  could 
not  have  avoided  it  if  they  would.  Do  you  know 
what  a  * 'caravan"  is?  It  is  a  sort  of  gipsy  house 
on  wheels  in  which  people  live,  while  the  house 
moves  from  place  to  place. 

It  was  not  a  shabby,  dingy,  dusty  cart,  but  a 
smart  little  house  v/ith  white  dimity  curtains 
hung  over  the  windows,  and  window-shutters  of 
green  picked  out  with  panels  of  a  staring  red,  in 
which  happily-contrasted  colors  the  whole  house 
shone  brilliant.  Neither  was  it  a  poor  caravan 
drawn  by  a  single  donkey  or  feeble  old  horse,  for  a 
pair  of  horses  in  pretty  good  condition  were 
released  from  the  shafts  and  grazing  on  the  frouzy 
grass.  Neither  was  it  a  gipsy  caravan,  for  at  the 
open  door  (graced  with  a  bright  brass  knocker) 
sat  a  Christian  lady,  stout  and  comfortable  to  look 
upon,  who  wore  a  large  bonnet  trembling  with 
bows.  And  that  it  was  not  a  caravan  of  poor 
people  was  clear  from  what  this  lady  w^as  doing; 
for  she  was  taking  her  tea.  The  tea-things, 
including  a  bottle  of  rather  suspicious  looks  and 
a  cold  knuckle  of  ham,  were  set  forth  upon  a 
drum,  covered  w4th  a  white  napkin ;  and  there,  as 
if  at  the  most  convenient  round-table  in  all  the 


I02  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

world,  sat  this  roving  lady,  taking  her  tea  and 
enjoying  the  prospect. 

It  happened  at  that  moment  that  the  lady  of 
the  caravan  had  her  cup  (which,  that  everything 
about  her  might  be  of  a  stout  and  comfortable 
kind,  w^as  a  breakfast  cup)  to  her  lips,  and  that 
having  her  eyes  lifted  to  the  sky  in  her  enjoyment 
of  the  full  flavor  of  her  tea,  it  happened  that,  being 
thus  agreeably  engaged,  she  did  not  see  the 
travelers  when  they  first  came  up.  It  was  not 
until  she  was  in  the  act  of  setting  down  the  cup, 
and  drawing  a  long  breath  after  the  exertion  of 
swallowing  its  contents,  that  the  lady  of  the 
caravan  beheld  an  old  man  and  a  young  child 
walking  slowly  by,  and  glancing  at  her  proceed- 
ings with  eyes  of  modest,  but  hungry  admiration. 

"Hey!"  cried  the  lady  of  the  caravan,  scoop- 
ing the  crumbs  out  of  her  lap  and  swallowing 
the   same   before   wiping  her  lips.     "Yes,  to  be 

sure Who  won  the  Helter-Skelter  Plate, 

child?" 

"Won  what,  ma'am?"  asked  Nell. 

"The  Helter-Skelter  Plate  at  the  races,  child — ■ 
the  plate  that  was  run  for  on  the  second  day. " 

"On  the  second  day,  ma'am?" 

"Second  day!  Yes,  second  day,"  repeated 
the   lady,    with   an   air   of   impatience.     "Can't 


LITTLE  NELL  103 

you  say  who  won  the  Helter-Skelter  Plate  when 
you're  asked  the  question  civilly?" 

**I  don't  know,  ma'am." 

"Don't  know!"  repeated  the  lady  of  the  cara- 
van; ''why,  you  were  there.  I  saw  you  with  my 
own  eyes." 

Nell  was  not  a  little  alarmed  to  hear  this,  sup- 
posing that  the  lady  might  be  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  the  firm  of  Short  and  Codlin;  but 
what  followed  tended  to  put  her  at  her  ease. 

**And  very  sorry  I  was,"  said  the  lady  of  the 
caravan,  *'to  see  you  in  company  with  a  Punch — 
a  low,  common,  vulgar  wretch,  that  people  should 
scorn  to  look  at.  " 

''  I  was  not  there  by  choice,  "  returned  the  child ; 
"we  didn't  know  our  way,  and  the  two  men  were 
very  kind  to  us,  and  let  us  travel  with  them. 
Do  you — do  you  know  them,  ma'am?" 

"Know  'em,  child?"  cried  the  lady  of  the  cara- 
van, in  a  sort  of  shriek.  "Know  them!  But 
you're  young  and  ignorant,  and  that's  your  excuse 
for  asking  sich  a  question.  Do  I  look  as  if  I 
know'd  'em?  does  the  caravan  look  as  if  it  know'd 
'em?" 

"No,  ma'am,  no,"  said  the  child,  fearing  she 
had  committed  some  grievous  fault.  "I  beg 
your  pardon. " 


I04  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

The  lady  of  the  caravan  was  in  the  act  of 
gathering  her  tea  things  together  preparing  to  clear 
the  table,  but  noting  the  child's  anxious  manner, 
she  hesitated  and  stopped.  The  child  courtesied, 
and,  giving  her  hand  to  the  old  man,  had  already 
got  some  fifty  yards  or  so  away,  when  the  lady  of 
the  caravan  called  to  her  to  return. 

"Come  nearer,  nearer  still,  "  said  she,  beckoning 
to  her  to  ascend  the  steps.  "Are  you  hungry, 
child?" 

"Not  very,  but  we  are  tired,  and  it's — it  is  a 
long  way 

"  Well,  hungry  or  not,  you  had  better  have  some 
tea, "  rejoined  her  new  acquaintance.  "  I  suppose 
you  are  agreeable  to  that  old  gentleman?" 

The  grandfather  humbly  pulled  off  his  hat  and 
thanked  her.  The  lady  of  the  caravan  then  bade 
him  come  up  the  steps  likewise,  but  the  drum 
proving  an  inconvenient  table  for  two,  they  went 
down  again,  and  sat  upon  the  grass,  where  she 
handed  down  to  them  the  tea-tray,  the  bread  and 
butter,  and  the  knuckle  of  ham. 

"  Set  'em  out  near  the  hind  wheels  child,  that's 
the  best  place,"  said  their  friend,  superintending 
the  arrangement  from  above.  "  Now  hand  up  the 
tea-pot  for  a  little  more  hot  water  and  a  pinch  of 
fresh  tea,  and  then  both  of  you  eat  and  drink  as 


LITTLE  NELL  105 

much  as  you  can,  and  don't  spare  anything; 
that's  all  I  ask  of  you. " 

The  mistress  of  the  caravan,  saying  the  girl  and 
her  grandfather  could  not  be  very  heavy,  invited 
them  to  go  along  with  them  for  a  while,  for  which 
Nell  thanked  her  with  all  her  heart. 

When  they  had  traveled  slowly  forward  for 
some  short  distance,  Nell  ventured  to  steal  a  look 
round  the  caravan  and  observe  it  more  closely. 
One-half  of  it — that  part  in  which  the  comfortable 
proprietress  was  then  seated — was  carpeted,  and 
so  divided  the  farther  end  as  to  form  a  sleeping- 
place,  made  after  the  fashion  of  a  berth  on  board 
ship,  which  was  shaded,  like  the  little  windows, 
with  fair  white  curtains,  and  looked  comfortable 
enough,  though  by  what  kind  of  gymnastic  exer- 
cise the  lady  of  the  caravan  ever  contrived  to 
get  into  it  was  a  mystery.  The  other  half 
served  for  a  kitchen,  and  was  fitted  up  with  a  stove 
w^hose  small  chimney  passed  through  the  roof. 

The  mistress  sat  looking  at  the  child  for  a  long 
time  in  silence,  and  then,  getting  up,  brought  out 
from  a  comer  a  large  roll  of  canvas  about  a  yard 
in  width,  which  she  laid  upon  the  floor  and  spread 
open  with  her  foot  until  it  nearly  reached  from  one 
end  of  the  caravan  to  the  other. 

** There,  child,"  she  said,  "read  that." 


io6  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

Nell  walked  down  it,  and  read  aloud,  in  enor- 
mous black  letters,  the  inscription,  "Jarley's 
Wax- WORK. " 

"Read  it  again,"  said  the  lady,  complacently. 

''Jarley's  Wax-work,"  repeated  Nell. 

"That's  me,"  said  the  lady.  "I  am  Mrs. 
Jarley." 

Giving  the  child  an  encouraging  look,  the  lady 
of  the  caravan  unfolded  another  scroll,  whereon 
was  the  inscription,  "One  hundred  figures  the 
full  size  of  life ;"  and  then  another  scroll,  on  which 
was  written,  "The  only  stupendous  collection 
of  real  wax-work  in  the  w^orld;"  and  then  several 
smaller  scrolls,  with  such  inscriptions  as  "Now 
exhibiting  within" — "The  genuine  and  only 
Jarley  " — "  Jarley 's  unrivaled  collection  " — "  Jarley 
is  the  delight  of  the  Nobility  and  Gentry" — 
"The  Royal  Family  are  the  patrons  of  Jarley." 
When  she  had  exhibited  these  large  painted  signs 
to  the  astonished  child,  she  brought  forth  speci- 
mens of  the  lesser  notices  in  the  shape  of  hand- 
bills, some  of  which  were  printed  in  the  form  of 
verses  on  popular  times,  as  "  Believe  me  if  all 
Jarley's  wax-work  so  rare" — "I  saw  thy  show 
in  youthful  prime" — "Over  the  water  to  Jarley;" 
while,  to  satisfy  all  tastes,  others  were  composed 
with  a  view  to  the  lighter  and  merrier  spirits,  as 


LITTLE  NELL  107 

a  verse  on  the  favorite  air  of  *'  If  I  had  a  donkey,  ** 
beginning 

If  I  know'd  a  donkey  wot  wouldn't  go 
To  see  Mrs.  Jarley's  wax-work  show, 
Do  you  think  I'd  own  him? 
Oh  no,  no! 

Then  run  to  Jarley's 

besides  several  compositions  in  prose,  pretending 
to  be  dialogues  between  the  Emperor  of  China 
and  an  oyster. 

**I  never  saw  any  wax-work,  ma'am,"  said 
Nell.     "  Is  it  funnier  than  Punch  ? ' ' 

"Funnier!"  said  Mrs.  Jarley  in  a  shrill  voice. 
"It  is  not  funny  at  all. " 

"Oh!"  said  Nell,  with  all  possible  humility.    . 

"It  isn't  funny  at  all,"  repeated  Mrs.  Jarley. 
"  It's  calm  and — what's  that  word  again — crit- 
ical?— no — classical,  that's  it — it's  calm  and 
classical.  No  low  beatings  and  knockings  about, 
no  jokings  and  squeakings  like  your  precious 
Punches,  but  always  the  same,  with  a  constantly 
unchanging  air  of  coldness  and  dignity ;  and  so  like 
life  that,  if  wax-work  only  spoke  and  walked  about 
you'd  hardly  know  the  difference.  I  won't  go 
so  far  as  to  say  that,  as  it  is,  I've  seen  wax-work 
quite  like  life,  but  IVe  certainly  seen  some  life 
that  was  exactly  like  wax-work. " 


io8  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

This  conference  at  length  concluded,  she  beckon- 
ed Nell  to  sit  down. 

"  And  the  old  gentleman,  too,  "  said  Mrs.  Jarley ; 
"for  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  him.  Do  you 
want  a  good  place  for  your  granddaughter, 
master?  If  you  do,  I  can  put  her  in  the  way  of 
getting  one.     What  do  you  say?" 

"I  can't  leave  her,"  answered  the  old  man. 
"We  can't  separate.  What  would  become  of 
me  without  her?" 

"If  you're  really  ready  to  employ  yourself," 
said  Mrs.  Jarley,  "there  would  be  plenty  for  you 
to  do  in  the  way  of  helping  to  dust  the  figures, 
and  take  the  checks,  and  so  forth.  What  I 
want  your  granddaughter  for  is  to  point  'em  out 
to  the  company ;  they  would  be  soon  learned  and 
she  has  a  way  with  her  that  people  wouldn't 
think  unpleasant,  though  she  does  come  after 
me;  for  I've  been  always  accustomed  to  go  round 
with  visitors  myself,  which  I  should  keep  on  doing 
now,  only  that  my  spirits  make  a  little  rest  ab- 
solutely necessary.  It's  not  a  common  offer, 
bear  in  mind, "  said  the  lady,  rising  into  the  tone 
and  manner  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  ad- 
dress her  audiences;  "it's  Jarley 's  wax-work,  re- 
member. The  duty's  very  light  and  genteel, 
the  company  particularly  select,  the  exhibition 


LITTLE  NELL  109 

takes  place  in  assembly-rooms,  town-halls,  large 
rooms  at  inns,  or  auction  galleries.  There  is  none 
of  your  open-air  wondering  at  Jarley's,  recollect ; 
there  is  no  tarpaulin  and  sawdust  at  Jarley's, 
remember.  Every  promise  made  in  the  hand- 
bills is  kept  to  the  utmost,  and  the  whole  forms 
an  effect  of  splendor  hitherto  unknown  in  this 
kingdom.  Remember  that  the  price  of  admission 
is  only  sixpence,  and  tliat  this  is  an  opportunity 
which  may  never  occur  again ! 

*'We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you,  ma'am," 
said  Nell,  ''and  thankfully  accept  your  offer." 

"And  you'll  never  be  sorry  for  it,"  returned 
Mrs.  Jarley.  "I'm  pretty  sure  of  that.  So 
as  that's  all  settled,  let  us  have  a  bit  of 
supper." 

Rumbling  along  with  most  unwonted  noise,  the 
caravan  stopped  at  last  at  the  place  of  exhibition, 
where  Nell  came  down  from  the  wagon  among  an 
admiring  group  of  children,  who  evidently  sup- 
posed her  to  be  an  important  part  of  the  curiosi- 
ties, and  were  almost  ready  to  believe  that  her 
grandfather  was  a  cunning  device  in  wax.  The 
chests  were  taken  out  of  the  van  for  the  figures 
with  all  haste,  and  taken  in  to  be  unlocked  by 
Mrs.  Jarley,  who,  attended  by  George  and  the 
driver,    arranged  their  contents  (consisting  of  red 


no  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

festoons  and  other  ornamental  work)  to  make  the 
best  show  in  the  decoration  of  the  room. 

When  the  festoons  were  all  put  up  as  tastily  as 
they  might  be,  the  wonderful  collection  was  un- 
covered; and  there  were  shown,  on  a  raised  plat- 
form some  two  feet  from  the  floor,  running  round 
the  room  and  parted  from  the  rude  public  by  a 
crimson  rope,  breast  high,  a  large  number  of 
sprightly  waxen  images  of  famous  people,  singly 
and  in  groups,  clad  in  glittering  dresses  of  various 
climes  and  times,  and  standing  more  or  less  un- 
steadily upon  their  legs,  with  their  eyes  very  wide 
open,  and  their  nostrils  very  much  inflated,  and 
the  muscles  of  their  legs,  and  arms  very  strongly 
developed,  and  all  their  faces  expressing  great 
surprise.  All  the  gentlemen  were  very  narrow 
in  the  breast,  and  very  blue  about  the  beards ;  and 
all  the  ladies  were  wonderful  figures;  and  all 
the  ladies  and  all  the  gentlemen  were  looking 
intensely  nowhere,  and  staring  with  tremendous 
earnestness  at  nothing. 

When  Nell  had  shown  her  first  wonder  at 
this  glorious  sight,  Mrs.  Jarley  ordered  the 
room  to  be  cleared  of  all  but  herself  and  the  child, 
and,  sitting  herself  down  in  an  arm-chair  in  the 
center,  presented  Nell  with  a  willow  wand,  long 
used  by  herself  for  pointing  out  the  characters, 


LITTLE  NELL  iii 

and  was  at  great  pains  to  instruct  her  in  her 
duty. 

"That,"  said  Mrs.  Jarley,  in  her  exhibition 
tone,  as  Nell  touched  a  figure  at  the  beginning  of 
the  platform,  "is  an  unfortunate  maid  of  honor 
in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  died  from 
pricking  her  finger  in  consequence  of  working 
upon  a  Sunday.  Observe  the  blood  which  is 
trickling  from  her  finger;  also  the  gold-eyed 
needle  of  the  period,  with  w^hich  she  is  at  work.' ' 

All  this  Nell  repeated  twice  or  thrice — pointing 
to  the  finger  and  the  needle  at  the  right  times; 
and  then  passed  on  to  the  next. 

"That,  ladies  and  gentlemen, "  said  Mrs.  Jarley, 
"is  Jasper  Packlemerton,  of  terrible  memory, 
who  courted  and  married  fourteen  wives,  and 
destroyed  them  all,  by  tickling  the  soles  of  their 
feet  when  they  were  sleeping  in  the  consciousness 
of  innocence  and  virtue.  On  being  brought  to  the 
scaffold  and  asked  if  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had 
done,  he  replied  yes,  he  was  sorry  for  having  let 
'em  off  so  easy,  and  hoped  all  Christian  husbands 
would  pardon  him  the  offense.  Let  this  be  a 
warning  to  all  young  ladies  to  be  particular  in 
the  character  of  the  gentlemen  of  their  choice. 
Observe  that  his  fingers  are  curled  as  if  in  the  act 
of  tickling,  and  that  his  face  is  represented  with  a 


112  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

wink,  as  he  appeared  when  committing  his  bar- 
barous murders. " 

When  Nell  knew  all  about  Mr.  Packlemerton, 
and  could  say  it  without  faltering,  Mrs.  Jarley 
passed  on  to  the  fat  man,  and  then  to  the  thin 
man,  the  tall  man,  the  short  man,  the  old  lady 
who  died  of  dancing  at  a  hundred  and  thirty-two, 
the  wild  boy  of  the  woods,  the  woman  who  poi- 
soned fourteen  families  with  pickled  walnuts, 
and  other  historical  characters  and  interesting 
but  misguided  individuals.  And  so  well  did  Nell 
profit  by  her  instructions,  and  so  apt  was  she  to 
remember  them,  that  by  the  time  they  had  been 
shut  up  together  for  a  couple  of  hours,  she  was  in 
full  possession  of  the  history  of  the  whole  establish- 
ment, and  perfectly  able  to  tell  the  stories  of  the 
wax-work  to  visitors. 

For  some  time  her  life  and  the  life  of  the  poor 
vacant  old  man  passed  quietly  and  happily.  They 
traveled  from  place  to  place  with  Mrs.  Jarley; 
Nell  spoke  her  piece,  with  the  w^and  in  her  hand, 
before  the  waxen  images;  and  her  grandfather 
in  a  dull  way  dusted  the  images  when  he  was  told 
to  do  so. 

But  heavier  sorrow  was  yet  to  come.  One 
night,  a  holiday  night  for  them,  Nell  and  her 
grandfather  went  out  to  walk.     A  terrible  thun- 


LITTLE  NELL  113 

derstorm  coming  on,  they  were  forced  to  take 
refuge  in  a  small  public  house ;  and  here  they  saw 
some  shabbily  dressed  and  wicked  looking  men 
were  playing  cards.  The  old  man  watched  them 
with  increasing  interest  and  excitement,  until  his 
w^hole  appearance  underwent  a  complete  change. 
His  face  was  flushed  and  eager,  his  teeth  set. 
With  a  hand  that  trembled  violently  he  seized 
Nell's  little  purse,  and  in  spite  of  her  pleadings 
joined  in  the  game,  gambling  with  such  a  savage 
thirst  for  gain  that  the  distressed  and  frightened 
child  could  almost  better  have  borne  to  see  him 
dead.  It  was  long  after  midnight  when  the  play 
came  to  an  end ;  and  they  were  forced  to  remain 
where  they  were  until  the  morning.  And  in  the 
night  the  child  was  wakened  from  her  troubled 
sleep  to  find  a  figure  in  the  room — a  figure  busy- 
ing its  hands  about  her  garments,  while  its  face 
was  turned  to  her,  listening  and  looking  lest  she 
should  awake.  It  was  her  grandfather  himself, 
his  white  face  pinched  and  sharpened  by  the  greed- 
iness which  made  his  eyes  unnaturally  bright, 
counting  the  money  of  which  his  hands  were 
robbing  her. 

Evening  after  evening,  after  that  night,  the 
old  man  would  steal  away,  not  to  return  until 
the  night  was  far  spent,  demanding,  wildly,  money, 


114  DICKENS^  CHILDREN 

And  at  last  there  came  an  hour  when  the  child 
overheard  him,  tempted  beyond  his  feeble  powers 
of  resistance,  undertake  to  find  more  money  to 
feed  the  desperate  passion  which  had  laid  its  hold 
upon  his  weakness  by  robbing  the  kind  Mrs. 
Jarley,  who  had  done  so  much  for  them.  The 
poor  old  man  had  become  so  weak  in  his  mind, 
that  he  did  not  understand  how  wicked  was  his 
act. 

That  night  the  child  took  her  grandfather  by 
the  hand  and  led  him  forth.  Through  the  strait 
streets  and  narrow  outskirts  of  the  town  their 
trembling  feet  passed  quickly;  the  child  sus- 
tained by  one  idea — that  they  were  flying  from 
wickedness  and  disgrace,  and  that  she  could  save 
her  grandfather  only  by  her  firmness  unaided  by 
one  word  of  advice  or  any  helping  hand ;  the  old 
man  following  her  as  though  she  had  been  an 
angel  messenger  sent  to  lead  him  where  she  would. 

The  hardest  part  of  all  their  wanderings  was 
now  before  them.  They  slept  in  the  open  air 
that  night,  and  on  the  following  morning  some 
men  offered  to  take  them  a  long  distance  on  their 
barge  on  the  river.  These  men,  though  they 
were  not  unkindly,  were  very  rugged,  noisy 
fellows,  and  they  drank  and  quarreled  fearfully 
among  themselves,  to  Nell's  inexpressible  terror. 


LITTLE  NELL  115 

It  rained,  too,  heavily,  and  she  was  wet  and  cold. 
At  last  they  reached  the  great  city  whither  the 
barge  was  bound,  and  here  they  wandered  up 
and  down,  being  now  penniless,  and  watched  the 
faces  of  those  who  passed,  to  find  among  them  a 
ray  of  encouragement  or  hope.  Ill  in  body,  and 
sick  to  death  at  heart,  the  child  needed  her  utmost 
courage  and  will  even  to  creep  along. 

They  lay  down  that  night,  and  the  next  night 
too,  with  nothing  between  them  and  the  sky;  a 
penny  loaf  was  all  they  had  had  that  day,  and 
when  the  third  morning  came,  it  found  the  child 
much  weaker,  yet  she  made  no  complaint.  The 
great  city  with  its  many  factories  hemmed  them 
in  on  every  side,  and  seemed  to  shut  out  hope. 

Faint  and  spiritless  as  they  were,  its  streets 
were  terrible  to  them.  After  humbly  asking  for 
relief  at  some  few  doors,  and  being  driven  away, 
they  agreed  to  make  their  way  out  of  it  as  speedily 
as  they  could,  and  try  if  the  people  living  in  some 
lone  house  beyond  would  have  more  pity  on  their 
worn  out  state. 

They  were  dragging  themselves  along  through 
the  last  street,  and  the  child  felt  that  the  time 
was  close  at  hand  when  her  enfeebled  powers 
would  bear  no  more.  There  appeared  before 
them,  at  this  moment,  going  in  the  same  direction 


ii6  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

as  themselves,  a  traveler  on  foot,  who,  with  a 
bundle  of  clothing  strapped  to  his  back,  leaned 
upon  a  stout  stick  as  he  walked,  and  read  from  a 
book  which  he  held  in  his  other  hand. 

It  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  come  up  with  him 
and  ask  his  aid,  for  he  walked  fast,  and  was  a 
little  distance  in  advance.  At  length  he  stopped, 
to  look  more  attentively  at  some  passage  in  his 
book.  Encouraged  by  a  ray  of  hope,  the  child 
shot  on  before  her  grandfather,  and,  going  close  to 
the  stranger  without  rousing  him  by  the  sound  of 
her  footsteps,  began,  in  a  few  faint  words,  to  beg 
his  help. 

He  turned  his  head.  The  child  clapped  her 
hands  together,  uttered  a  wild  shriek,  and  fell 
senseless  at  his  feet. 

It  was  the  poor  schoolmaster.  No  other  than 
the  poor  schoolmaster.  Scarcely  less  moved  and 
surprised  by  the  sight  of  the  child  than  she  had 
been  on  recognizing  him,  he  stood,  for  a  moment, 
silent,  without  even  the  presence  of  mind  to  raise 
her  from  the  ground. 

But,  quickly  recovering  himself,  he  threw  down 
his  stick  and  book,  and,  dropping  on  one  knee 
beside  her,  tried  simple  means  as  came  to  his 
mind,  to  restore  her  to  herself ;  while  her  grand- 
father, standing  idly  by,  wrung  his  hands,     and 


LITTLE  NELL  117 

begged  her,  with  many  words  of  love,  to  speak 
to  him,  were  it  only  a  whisper. 

She  appears  to  be  quite  worn  out, "  said  the 
schoolmaster,  glancing  upward  into  his  face. 
"You  have  used  up  all  her  strength,  friend. " 

"She  is  dying  of  want, "  answered  the  old  man. 
"I  never  thought  how  weak  and  ill  she  was  till 
now." 

Casting  a  look  upon  him,  half -angry  and  half- 
pitiful,  the  schoolmaster  took  the  child  in  his 
arms,  and,  bidding  the  old  man  gather  up  her 
little  basket  and  follow  him  directly,  bore  her 
away  at  his  utmost  speed. 

There  was  a  small  inn  within  sight,  to  which,  it 
would  seem,  he  had  been  walking  when  so  unex- 
pectedly overtaken.  Toward  this  place  he  hur- 
ried with  his  unconscious  burden,  and  rushing 
into  the  kitchen,  and  calling  upon  the  company 
there  assembled  to  make  way  for  God's  sake,  laid 
it  down  on  a  chair  before  the  fire. 

The  company,  who  rose  in  confusion  on  the 
schoolmaster's  entrance,  did  as  people  usually 
do  under  such  circumstances.  Everybody  called 
for  his  or  her  favorite  remedy,  which  nobody 
brought;  each  cried  for  more  air,  at  the  same 
time  carefully  shutting  out  what  air  there  was, 
by  closing  round  the  object  of  sympathy ;  and  all 


ii8  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

wondered  why  somebody  else  didn't  do  what  it 
never  appeared  to  occur  to  them  might  be  done 
by  themselves. 

The  landlady,  however,  who  had  more  readiness 
and  activity  than  any  of  them,  and  who  seemed 
to  understand  the  case  more  quickly,  soon  came 
running  in,  with  a  little  hot  medicine,  followed  by 
her  serv^ant-girl,  carrying  vinegar,  hartshorn, 
smelling-salts,  and  such  other  restoratives ;  which, 
being  duly  given,  helped  the  child  so  far  as  to 
enable  her  to  thank  them  in  a  faint  voice,  and  to 
hold  out  her  hand  to  the  poor  schoolmaster,  who 
stood,  with  an  anxious  face,  near  her  side. 
Without  suffering  her  to  speak  another  word,  or 
so  much  as  to  stir  a  finger  any  more,  the  women 
straightway  carried  her  off  to  bed;  and,  having 
covered  her  up  warm,  bathed  her  cold  feet,  and 
wrapped  them  in  flannel,  they  sent  a  messenger  for 
the  doctor. 

The  doctor,  who  was  a  red-nosed  gentleman 
with  a  great  bunch  of  seals  dangling  below  a 
waistcoat  of  ribbed  black  satin,  arrived  with  all 
speed,  and  taking  his  seat  by  the  bedside  of  poor 
Nell,  drew  out  his  watch,  and  felt  her  pulse. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  tongue,  then  he  felt  her 
pulse  again,  and  while  he  did  so,  he  eyed  the  half- 
emptied  wine-glass  as  if  in  profound  abstraction. 


LITTLE  NELL  119 

"I  should  give  her, "  said  the  doctor  at  length, 
"a  teaspoonful,  every  now  and  then,  of  hot 
medicine." 

*'Why,  that's  exactly  what  we've  done,  sir!" 
said  the  delighted  landlady. 

"I  should  also, "  observed  the  doctor,  who  had 
passed  the  foot-bath  on  the  stairs,  "  I  should  also,  " 
said  the  doctor,  in  a  very  wise  tone  of  voice, 
"put  her  feet  in  hot  water  and  wrap  them  up  in 
flannel.  I  should  likewise, "  said  the  doctor,  with 
increased  solemnity,  "give  her  something  light 
for  supper — the  wing  of  a  roasted  chicken  now 


"Why,  goodness  gracious  me,  sir,  it's  cooking 
at  the  kitchen  fire  this  instant !"  cried  the  landlady. 
And  so  indeed  it  was,  for  the  schoolmaster  had 
ordered  it  to  be  put  down,  and  it  was  getting  on 
so  well  that  the  doctor  might  have  smelled  it  if  he 
had  tried;  perhaps  he  did. 

"You  may  then,"  said  the  doctor,  rising 
gravely,  "give  her  a  glass  of  hot  mulled  port- 
wine,  if  she  likes  wine " 

"  And  a  piece  of  toast,  sir? "  suggested  the  land- 
lady. 

"Ay,  '*  said  the  doctor,  in  a  very  dignified  tone, 
"  And  a  toast — of  bread.  But  be  very  particular 
to  make  it  of  bread,  if  you  please,  ma'am. " 


I20  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

With  which  parting  advice,  slowly  and  solemnly 
given,  the  doctor  departed,  leaving  the  whole 
house  in  admiration  of  that  wisdom  which  agreed 
so  closely  with  their  own.  Everybody  said  he  was 
a  very  shrewd  doctor  indeed,  and  knew  perfectly 
what  people's  bodies  needed ;  which  there  appears 
some  reason  to  suppose  he  did. 

While  her  supper  was  preparing,  the  child  fell 
into  a  refreshing  sleep,  from  which  they  were 
obliged  to  rouse  her  when  it  was  ready.  As  she 
showed  extraordinary  uneasiness  on  learning  that 
her  grandfather  was  below  stairs,  and  as  she  was 
greatly  troubled  at  the  thought  of  their  being 
apart,  he  took  his  supper  with  her.  Finding  her 
still  very  anxious  for  the  old  man,  they  made  him 
up  a  bed  in  an  inner  room,  to  which  he  soon  went. 
The  key  of  this  room  happened  by  good-fortune 
to  be  on  that  side  of  the  door  which  was  in  Nell's 
room;  she  turned  it  on  him  when  the  landlady 
had  withdrawn,  and  crept  to  bed  again  with  a 
thankful  heart. 

The  schoolmaster  sat  for  a  long  time  smoking 
his  pipe  by  the  kitchen  fire,  which  was  now 
deserted,  thinking,  with  a  very  happy  face,  on  the 
fortunate  chance  which  had  brought  him  at  just 
the  right  moment  to  the  child's  assistance. 

The  schoolmaster,  as  it  appeared,  was  on  his 


LITTLE  NELL  121 

way  to  a  new  home.  And  when  the  child  had 
recovered  somewhat  from  her  hunger  and  weari- 
ness, it  was  arranged  that  she  and  her  grandfather 
should  go  with  him  to  the  village  whither  he  was 
bound,  and  that  he  should  endeavor  to  find  them 
some  work  by  which  they  could  get  their 
living. 

It  was  a  lonely  little  village,  lying  among  the 
quiet  country  scenes  Nell  loved.  And  here,  her 
grandfather  being  peaceful  and  at  rest,  a  great 
calm  fell  upon  the  spirit  of  the  child.  Often  she 
would  steal  into  the  church,  and,  sitting  down 
among  the  quiet  figures  carved  upon  the  tombs, 
would  think  of  the  summer  days  and  the  bright 
spring-time  that  would  come:  of  the  rays  of  sun 
that  would  fall  in,  aslant  those  sleeping  forms; 
of  the  songs  of  birds,  and  the  sweet  air  that  would 
steal  in.  What  if  the  spot  awakened  thoughts 
of  death !  It  would  be  no  pain  to  sleep  amid  such 
sights  and  sounds  as  these.  For  the  time  was 
drawing  nearer  every  day  when  Nell  was  to  rest 
indeed.  She  never  murmured  or  complained, 
but  faded  like  a  light  upon  a  summer's  evening 
and  died.  Day  after  day  and  all  day  long,  the 
old  man,  broken-hearted  and  with  no  love  or  care 
for  anything  in  life,  would  sit  beside  her  grave 
with  her  straw  hat  and  the  little  basket  she  had 


122  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

been  used  to  carry,  waiting  till  she  should  come 
to  him  again.  At  last  they  found  him  lying  dead 
upon  the  stone.  And  in  the  church  where  they 
had  often  prayed  and  mused  and  lingered,  hand 
in  hand,  the  child  and  the  old  man  slept  together. 


VII. 
LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  little  David  Copperfield,  lived  with  m}^  mother 
in  a  pretty  house  in  the  village  of  Blunder- 
y  stone  in  Suffolk.  I  had  never  known  my 
father,  who  died  before  I  could  remember  any- 
thing, and  I  had  neither  brothers  nor  sisters.  I 
was  fondly  loved  by  my  pretty  young  mother, 
and  our  kind,  good  sen^ant,  Peggotty,  and  was 
a  very  happy  little  fellow.  We  had  very  few 
friends,  and  the  only  relation  my  mother  talked 
about  was  an  aunt  of  my  father's,  a  tall  and 
rather  terrible  old  lady,  from  all  accounts,  who 
had  once  been  to  see  us  when  I  was  quite  a  tiny 
baby,  and  had  been  so  angry  to  find  I  was  not  a 
little  girl  that  she  had  left  the  house  quite  of- 
fended, and  had  never  been  heard  of  since.  One 
visitor,  a  tall  dark  gentleman,  I  did  not  like  at 
all,  and  was  rather  inclined  to  be  jealous  that  my 
mother  should  be  so  friendly  with  the  stranger. 

Peggotty  and  I  were  sitting  one  night  by  the 
parlor  fire,  alone.  I  had  been  reading  to  Peggotty 
about  crocodiles.  I  was  tired  of  reading,  and 
dead  sleepy;  but  having  leave,  as  a  high  treat, 

(123) 


124  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

to  sit  up  until  my  mother  came  home  from  spend- 
ing the  evening  at  a  neighbor's,  I  would  rather 
have  died  upon  my  post  (of  course)  than  have 
gone  to  bed.  I  had  reached  that  stage  of  sleepi- 
ness when  Peggotty  seemed  to  swell  and  grow 
immensely  large.  I  propped  my  eyelids  open 
with  my  two  forefingers,  and  looked  perseveringly 
at  her  as  she  sat  at  work ;  at  the  little  house  with 
a  thatched  roof,  where  she  kept  her  yard-measure ; 
at  her  work-box  with  a  sliding-lid,  with  a  view 
of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  (with  a  pink  dome) 
painted  on  the  top;  at  the  brass  thimble  on  her 
finger;  at  herself,  whom  I  thought  lovely.  I  felt 
so  sleepy  that  I  knew  if  I  lost  sight  of  anything, 
for  a  moment,  I  was  gone. 

"Peggotty,"  says  I,  suddenly,  ''were  you  ever 
married?" 

*'Lord,     Master    Davy!"    replied    Peggdlty. 
"What's  put  marriage  in  your  head?" 

She  answered  with  such  a  start  that  it  quite 
awoke  me.  And  then  she  stopped  in  her  work  and 
looked  at  me,  with  her  needle  drawn  out  to  its 
thread's  length. 

"But  were  you  ever  married,  Peggotty?"  says 
I.  "You  are  a  very  handsome  woman,  ain't 
you?" 

"Me  handsome,  Davy !"  said  Peggotty.     "Lawk, 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       125 

no,  my  dear!     But  what  put  marriage  in  your 
head?" 

"I  don't  know!  You  mustn't  marry  more  than 
one  person  at  a  time,  may  you,  Peggotty?" 

^'Certainly  not,"  says,  Peggotty,  with  the 
promptest  decision. 

''But  if  you  marry  a  person,  and  the  person 
dies,  why  then  you  may  marry  another  person, 
mayn't  you,  Peggotty?" 

''You  MAY,"  says  Peggotty,  "if  you  choose,  my 
dear.     That's  a  matter  of  opinion." 

"But  what  is  your  opinion,  Peggotty?"  said  I. 

I  asked  her  and  looked  curiously  at  her,  because 
she  looked  so  curiously  at  me. 

"My  opinion  is,"  said  Peggotty,  taking  her  eyes 
from  me,  after  waiting  a  little,  and  going  on  with 
her  work,  ''that  I  never  w^as  married  myself, 
Master  Davy,  and  that  I  don't  expect  to  be. 
That's  all  I   know  about  the  subject." 

"You  ain't  cross,  I  suppose,  Peggotty,  are  you?'* 
said  I,  after  sitting  quiet  for  a  minute. 

I  really  thought  she  was,  she  had  been  so  short 
with  me;  but  I  was  quite  mistaken;  for  she  laid 
aside  her  work  (which  was  a  stocking  of  her  own) 
and  opening  her  arms  wide,  took  my  curly  head 
witliin  them,  and  gave  it  a  good  squeeze.  I 
know  it  was  a  good  squeeze,  because,  being  very 


126  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

plump,  whenever  she  made  any  Httle  exertion 
after  she  was  dressed,  some  of  the  buttons  on  the 
back  of  her  flew  off.  And  I  recollect  two  bursting 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  parlor  while  she  was 
hugging  me. 

One  day  Peggotty  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to 
go  with  her  on  a  visit  to  her  brother  at  Yarmouth. 

"Is  your  brother  an  agreeable  man,  Peggotty?" 
I  inquired. 

"Oh,  what  an  agreeable  man  he  is!"  cried  Peg- 
gotty. "Then  there's  the  sea,  and  the  boats  and 
ships,  and  the  fishermen,  and  the  beach.  And 
'Am  to  play  with." 

Ham  was  her  nephew.  I  was  quite  anxious 
to  go  when  I  heard  of  all  these  delights;  but  my 
mother,  w^hat  w^ould  she  do  all  alone?  Peggotty 
told  me  my  mother  w^as  going  to  pay  a  visit  to 
some  friends,  and  would  be  sure  to  let  me  go. 
So  all  was  arranged,  and  we  were  to  start  the 
next  day  in  the  carrier's  cart.  I  was  so  eager  that 
I  wanted  to  put  my  hat  and  coat  on  the  night 
before !  But  wiien  the  time  came  to  say  good-by 
to  my  dear  mamma,  I  cried  a  little,  for  I  had 
never  left  her  before.  It  was  rather  a  slow  way  of 
traveling,  and  I  was  \  ery  tired  and  sleepy  when  I 
arrived  at  Yarmouth,  and  found  Ham  waiting  to 
meet  me.     He  was  a  great  strong  fellow,  six  feet 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       127 

high,  and  took  me  on  his  back  and  the  box  under 
his  arm  to  carry  both  to  the  house.  I  was  deHght- 
ed  to  find  that  this  house  was  made  of  a  real  big 
black  boat,  w^ith  a  door  and  windows  cut  in  the 
side,  and  an  iron  funnel  sticking  out  of  the  roof 
for  a  chimney.  Inside,  it  was  very  cozy  and  clean, 
and  I  had  a  tiny  bedroom  in  the  stem.  I  was 
very  much  pleased  to  find  a  dear  little  girl,  about 
my  own  age,  to  play  with,  and  after  tea  I  said : 

*'Mr.  Peggotty." 

"Sir,"  says  he. 

"Did  you  give  your  son  the  name  of  Ham 
because  you  lived  in  a  sort  of  ark?" 

Mr.  Peggotty  seemed  to  think  it  a  deep  idea, 
but  answered: 

"No,  sir.     I  never  giv'  him  no  name." 

"Who  gave  him  that  name,  then?"  said  I, 
putting  question  number  two  of  the  catechism  to 
Mr.  Peggotty. 

"Why,  sir,  his  father  giv*  it  him,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty. 

"I  thought  you  were  his  father!" 

"My  brother  Joe  was  his  father,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty. 

"Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty?"  I  hinted,  after  a  respect 
ful  pause. 

"Drowndead,"  said  Mr.   Peggotty. 


128  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

I  was  very  much  surprised  that  Mr.  Peggotty 
was  not  Ham's  father,  and  began  to  wonder 
whether  I  was  mistaken  about  his  relationship  to 
anybody  else  there.  I  was  so  curious  to  know 
that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it  out  with  Mr. 
Peggotty. 

"Little  Em'ly,"  I  said,  glancing  at  her.  **She 
is  your  daughter,  isn't  she,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

"No,  sir.  My  brother-in-law,  Tom,  was  her 
father." 

I  couldn't  help  it.     " Dead,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

I  hinted,  after  another  respectful  silence. 

"Drowndead,"   said   Mr.   Peggotty. 

I  felt  the  difficulty  of  resuming  the  subject,  but 
had  not  got  to  the  bottom  of  it  yet,  and  must  get 
to  the  bottom  somehow.     So  I  said : 

"Haven't  you  any  children,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

"No,  master,"  he  answered,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"I'm  a  bacheldore." 

"A  bachelor!"  I  said,  astonished.  "Why, 
who's  that,  Mr.  Peggotty?"  Pointing  to  the 
person  in  the  apron  who  was  knitting. 

"That's  Missis  Gummidge,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"Gummidge,  Mr.  Peggotty?" 

But  at  this  point  Peggotty — I  mean  my  own 
Peggotty — made  such  impressive  motions  to  me 
not  to  ask  any  more  questions,  that  I  could  only 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       129 

sit  and  look  at  all  the  company,  until  it  was  time 
to  go  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Gummidge  lived  with  them  too,  and  did 
the  cooking  and  cleaning,  for  she  was  a  poor  widow 
and  had  no  home  of  her  own.  I  thought  Mr. 
Peggotty  was  very  good  to  take  all  these  people 
to  live  with  him,  and  I  was  quite  right,  for  Mr. 
Peggotty  was  only  a  poor  man  himself  and  had 
to  work  hard  to  get  a  living. 

Almost  as  soon  as  morning  shone  upon  the 
oyster-shell  frame  of  my  mirror  I  was  out  of  bed, 
and  out  with  little  Em'ly,  picking  up  stones  upon 
the  beach. 

''You're  quite  a  sailor  I  suppose?*'  I  said  to 
Em'ly.  I  don't  know  that  I  supposed  anything 
of  the  kind,  but  I  felt  it  proper  to  say  something ; 
and  a  shining  sail  close  to  us  made  such  a  pretty 
little  image  of  itself,  at  the  moment,  in  her  bright 
eye,  that  it  came  into  my  head  to  say  this. 

"No,"  replied  Em'ly,  shaking  her  head,  "I'm 
afraid  of  the  sea." 

"Afraid!"  I  said,  with  a  becoming  air  of  bold- 
ness, and  looking  very  big  at  the  mighty  ocean. 
I  am  t. 

"  Ah!  but  it's  cruel, "  said  Em'ly.  "  I  have  seen 
it  very  cruel  to  some  of  our  men.  I  have  seen 
it  tear  a  boat  as  big  as  our  house  all  to  pieces. " 


I^O 


DICKENS'  CHILDREN 


"I   hope   it   wasn't  the  boat  that — '* 

"That  father  was  drowned  in?"  said  Em'ly. 
*'No.     Not  that  one,  I  never  see  that  boat." 

"Nor  him?"  I  asked  her. 

Little  Em'ly  shook  her  head.  **  Not  to  remem- 
ber!" 

Here  was  something  remarkable.  I  imme- 
diately went  into  an  explanation  how  I  had  never 
seen  my  own  father;  and  how  my  mother  and  I 
had  always  lived  by  ourselves  in  the  happiest 
state  imaginable,  and  lived  so  then,  and  always 
meant  to  live  so ;  and  how  my  father's  grave  was 
in  the  churchyard  near  our  house,  and  shaded  by  a 
tree,  beneath  the  boughs  of  which  I  had  walked 
and  heard  the  birds  sing  many  a  pleasant  morning. 
But  there  were  some  differences  between  Em'ly's 
orphanhood  and  mine,  it  appeared.  She  had  lost 
her  mother  before  her  father,  and  where  her 
father's  grave  was  no  one  knew,  except  that  it 
was  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

**  Besides, "  said  Em'ly,  as  she  looked  about 
for  shells  and  pebbles,  "  your  father  was  a  gentle- 
man and  your  mother  is  a  lady;  and  my  father 
was  a  fisherman  and  my  mother  was  a  fisher- 
man's daughter,  and  my  Uncle  Dan  is  a  fisher- 
man." 

**  Dan  is  Mr.  Peggotty,  is  he?"  said  I. 


T/r 


m. 


W.L  I 


/ 


m 


David  Copperfield  and  Little  Em'ly. 


Page 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       131 

*' Uncle — yonder,"  answered  Emly,  nodding 
at  the  boat-house. 

"  Yes.  I  mean  him.  He  must  be  very  good, 
I  should  think." 

"Good?"  said  Em'ly.  ''If  I  was  ever  to  be  a 
lady,  I'd  give  him  a  sky-blue  coat  with  diamond 
buttons,  nankeen  trousers,  a  red  velvet  waistcoat, 
a  cocked  hat,  a  large  gold  watch,  a  silver  pipe,  and 
a  box  of  money.  " 

I  said  I  had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Peggotty  well 
deserved  these  treasures. 

Little  Em'ly  had  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the 
sky  while  she  named  these  articles,  as  if  they 
were  a  glorious  vision.  We  went  on  again  picking 
up  shells  and  pebbles. 

"You  would  like  to  be  a  lady.?"  I  said. 

Em'ly  looked  at  me,  and  laughed  and  nodded 
"yes." 

"  I  should  like  it  very  much.  We  would  all  be 
gentlefolks  together,  then.  Me,  and  uncle,  and 
Ham,  and  Mrs.  Gummidge.  We  wouldn't  mind 
then,  when  there  come  stormy  weather.  Not  for 
our  own  sakes,  I  mean.  We  would  for  the  poor 
fishermen's,  to  be  sure,  and  we'd  help  'em  with 
money  when  they  come  to  any  hurt.  " 

I  was  quite  sorry  to  leave  these  kind  people  and 
my  dear  little  companion,  but  I  was  glad  to  think 


132  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

I  should  get  back  to  my  own  dear  mamma.  When 
I  reached  home,  however,  I  found  a  great  change. 
My  mother  was  married  to  the  dark  man  I  did  not 
like,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Murdstone,  and  he  was 
a  stem,  hard  man,  who  had  no  love  for  me,  and 
did  not  allow  my  mother  to  pet  and  indulge  me  as 
she  had  done  before.  Mr.  Murdstone's  sister 
came  to  live  with  us,  and  as  she  was  even  more 
difficult  to  please  than  her  brother,  and  disliked 
boys,  my  life  was  no  longer  a  happy  one.  I  tried 
to  be  good  and  obedient,  for  I  knew  it  made  my 
mother  very  unhappy  to  see  me  punished  and 
found  fault  with.  I  had  always  had  lessons  with 
my  mother,  and  as  she  was  patient  and  gentle, 
I  had  enjoyed  learning  to  read,  but  now  I  had  a 
great  many  very  hard  lessons  to  do,  and  was  so 
frightened  and  shy  when  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone 
were  in  the  room,  that  I  did  not  get  on  at  all  well, 
and  was  continually  in  disgrace. 

Let  me  remember  how  it  used  to  be,  and  bring 
one  morning  back  again. 

I  come  into  the  second-best  parlor  after  break- 
fast, with  my  books,  and  an  exercise-book  and  a 
slate.  My  mother  is  ready  for  me  at  her  writing- 
desk,  but  not  half  so  ready  as  Mr.  Murdstone  in  his 
easy-chair  by  the  window  (though  he  pretends  to 
be  reading  a  book),  or  as  Miss  Murdstone,  sitting 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       133 

near  my  mother  stringing  steel  beads.  The  very 
sight  of  these  two  has  such  an  influence  over  me 
that  I  begin  to  feel  the  words  I  have  been  at  in- 
finite pains  to  get  into  my  head  all  sliding  away, 
and  going  I  don't  know  where.  I  wonder  where 
they  do  go,  by-the-by? 

I  hand  the  first  book  to  my  mother.  Perhaps 
it  is  a  grammar,  perhaps  a  history,  or  geography. 
I  take  a  last  drowning  look  at  the  page  as  I  give 
it  into  her  hand,  and  start  off  aloud  at  a  racing 
pace  while  I  have  got  it  fresh.  I  trip  over  a  word. 
Mr.  Murdstone  looks  up.  I  trip  over  another 
word.  Miss  Murdstone  looks  up.  I  redden, 
tumble  over  half  a  dozen  words  and  stop.  I 
think  my  mother  would  show  me  the  book  if 
she  dared,  but  she  does  not  dare,  and  she  says 
softly : 

"Oh,  Davy,  Davy!" 

**Now,  Clara,"  says  Mr.  Murdstone,  "be  firm 
with  the  boy.  Don't  say,  'Oh,  Davy,  Davy!' 
That's  childish.  He  knows  his  lesson,  or  he  does 
not  know  it." 

"He  does  not  know  it,"  Miss  Murdstone  inter- 
poses awfully. 

"  I  am  really  afraid  he  does  not, "  says  my 
mother. 

"Then  you  see,  Clara, "  returns  Miss  Murdstone, 


134  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

*'yoii  should  just  give  him  the  book  back,  and 
make  him  know  it. " 

"Yes,  certainly,"  says  my  mother;  "that  is 
what  I  intend  to  do,  my  dear  Jane.  Now,  Davy, 
try  once  more,  and  don't  be  stupid. " 

I  obey  the  first  clause  of  my  mother's  words 
by  trying  once  more,  but  am  not  so  successful 
with  the  second,  for  I  am  very  stupid.  I  tumble 
down  before  I  get  to  the  old  place,  at  a  point  where 
I  was  all  right  before,  and  stop  to  think.  But  I 
can't  think  about  the  lesson.  I  think  of  the  num- 
ber of  yards  of  net  in  Miss  Murdstone's  cap,  or  of 
the  price  of  Mr.  Murdstone's  dressing-gown,  or 
any  such  ridiculous  matter  that  I  have  no  business 
with,  and  don't  want  to  have  anything  at  all  to  do 
with.  Mr.  Murdstone  makes  a  movement  of 
impatience  which  I  have  been  expecting  for  a  long 
time.  Miss  Murdstone  does  the  same.  My 
mother  glances  submissively  at  them,  shuts  the 
book,  and  lays  it  by,  to  be  worked  out  when  my 
other  tasks  are  done. 

There  is  a  pile  of  these  tasks  very  soon,  and  it 
swells  like  a  rolling  snowball.  The  bigger  it  gets, 
the  more  stupid  I  get.  The  case  is  so  hopeless,  and 
I  feel  that  lam  wallowing  in  such  a  bog  of  nonsense, 
that  I  give  up  all  idea  of  getting  out,  and  abandon 
myself  to  my  fate.     The  despairing  way  in  which 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD      135 

my  mother  and  I  look  at  each  other,  as  I  blunder 
on,  is  truly  melancholy.  But  the  greatest  effect 
in  these  miserable  lessons  is  when  my  mother 
(thinking  nobody  is  observing  her)  tries  to  give 
me  the  cue  by  the  motion  of  her  lips.  At  that 
instant,  Miss  Murdstone,  who  has  been  lying  in 
wait  for  nothing  else  all  along  says  in  a  deep  warn- 
ing voice : 

"Clara!" 

My  mother  starts,  colors,  and  smiles  faintly. 
Mr.  Murdstone  comes  out  of  his  chair,  takes  the 
book,  throws  it  at  me,  or  boxes  my  ears  with  it, 
and  turns  me  out  of  the  room  by  the  shoulders. 

My  only  pleasure  was  to  go  up  into  a  little  room 
at  the  top  of  the  house  where  I  had  found  a  num- 
ber of  books  that  had  belonged  to  my  own  father, 
and  I  would  sit  and  read  Robinson  Crusoe,  and 
many  tales  of  travels  and  adventures,  and  I 
imagined  myself  to  be  sometimes  one  and  some- 
times another  hero,  and  went  about  for  days 
with  the  centre-piece  out  of  an  old  set  of  boot- 
trees,  pretending  to  be  a  captain  in  the  British 
Royal  Navy. 

One  morning  when  I  went  into  the  parlor  with 
my  books,  I  found  my  mother  looking  anxious, 
Miss  Murdstone  looking  firm,  and  Mr.  Murdstone 
binding  something  round  the  bottom  of  a  cane — a 


136  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

lithe  and  limber  cane,  which  he  left  off  binding 
when  I  came  in,  and  poised  and  switched  in  the 
air. 

"I  tell  you,  Clara,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  "I 
have  often  been  flogged  myself." 

"To  be  sure;  of  course,"  said  Miss  Murdstone. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  Jane, "  faltered  my  mother, 
meekly.  **  But — ^but  do  you  think  it  did  Edward 
good?" 

"Do  you  think  it  did  Edward  harm,  Clara?" 
asked  Mr.  Murdstone,  gravely. 

"That's  the  point!"  said  his  sister. 

To  this  my  mother  returned,  "Certainly,  my 
dear  Jane, "  and  said  no  more. 

I  felt  afraid  that  all  this  had  something  to  do 
with  myself,  and  sought  Mr.  Murdstone's  eye  as 
it  lighted  on  mine. 

"Now,  David,"  he  said — and  I  saw  that  cast 
again,  as  he  said  it — "you  must  be  far  more  care- 
ful to-day  than  usual."  He  gave  the  cane  an- 
other poise  and  another  switch;  and  having 
finished  his  preparation  of  it,  laid  it  down  beside 
him,  with  an  expressive  look,  and  took  up  his 
book. 

This  was  a  good  freshener  to  my  memory,  as  a 
beginning.  I  felt  the  words  of  my  lessons  slipping 
off,  not  one  by  one,  or  line  by  line,  but  by  the  en- 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       137 

tire  page.  I  tried  to  lay  hold  of  them;  but  they 
seemed,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  to  have  put  skates 
on,  and  to  skim  away  from  me  with  a  smoothness 
there  was  no  checking. 

We  began  badly,  and  went  on  worse.  I  had 
come  in  with  an  idea  of  doing  better  than  usual, 
thinking  that  I  was  very  well  prepared;  but  it 
turned  out  to  be  quite  a  mistake.  Book  after 
book  was  added  to  the  heap  of  failures,  Miss  Murd- 
stone  being  firmly  watchful  of  us  all  the  time. 
And  when  we  came  at  last  to  a  question  about 
five  thousand  cheeses  (canes  he  made  it  that  day, 
I  remember),  my  mother  burst  out  crying. 

** Clara!"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning 
voice. 

*1  am  not  quite  well,  my  dear  Jane,  I  think," 
said  my  mother. 

I  saw  him  wink,  solemnly,  at  his  sister,  as  he 
rose  and  said,  taking  up  the  cane: 

**Why,  Jane,  we  can  hardly  expect  Clara  to  bear, 
with  perfect  fiimness,  the  woriy  and  torment 
that  David  has  caused  her  to-day.  Clara  is 
greatly  strengthened  and  improved;  but  we  can 
hardly  expect  so  much  from  her.  David,  you  and 
I  will  go  up -stairs,  boy." 

As  he  took  me  out  at  the  door,  my  mother  ran 
towards  us.     Miss  Murdstone  said,   "Clara!  are 


138  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

you  a  perfect  fool?"  and  interfered.  I  saw  my 
mother  stop  her  ears  then,  and  I  heard  her  crying. 

He  walked  me  up  to  my  room  slowly  and 
gravely — I  am  certain  he  had  a  delight  in  that 
formal  show  of  doing  justice — and  when  we  got 
there,  suddenly  twisted  my  head  under  his  arm. 

*'Mr.  Murdstone!  Sir!"  I  cried  to  him. 
**Don't!  Pray  don't  beat  me!  I  have  tried  to 
learn,  sir,  but  I  can't  learn  while  you  and  Miss 
Murdstone  are  by.     I  can't  indeed!" 

"Can't  you,  indeed,  David?"  he  said.  "We'll 
try  that." 

He  had  my  head  as  in  a  vise,  but  I  twined 
round  him  somehow,  and  stopped  him  for  a 
moment,  entreating  him  not  to  beat  me.  It  was 
only  for  a  moment  that  I  stopped  him,  for  he  cut 
me  heavily  an  instant  afterwards,  and  in  the  same 
instant  I  caught  the  hand  with  which  he  held  me 
in  my  mouth,  between  my  teeth,  and  bit  it  through. 
It  sets  my  teeth  on  edge  to  think  of  it. 

He  beat  me  then,  as  if  he  would  have  beaten  me 
to  death.  Above  all  the  noise  we  made,  I  heard 
them  running  up  the  stairs,  and  crying  out — I 
heard  my  mother  crying  out — and  Peggotty. 
Then  he  was  gone ;  and  the  door  was  locked  out- 
side ;  and  I  was  lying,  fevered,  and  hot,  and  torn, 
and  raging  in  my  puny  way,  upon  the  floor. 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       139 

How  well  I  recollect,  when  I  became  quiet, 
what  an|  unnatural  stillness  seemed  to  reign 
through  the  whole  house !  How  well  I  remember, 
when  my  smart  and  passion  began  to  cool,  how 
wicked  I  began  to  feel! 

I  sat  listening  for  a  long  while,  but  there  w^as 
not  a  sound.  I  crawled  up  from  the  floor,  and 
saw  my  face  in  the  glass,  so  swollen,  red,  and  ugly 
that  it  almost  frightened  me.  My  stripes  were 
sore  and  stiff,  and  made  me  cry  afresh,  when  I 
moved ;  but  they  were  nothing  to  the  guilt  I  felt. 
It  lay  heavier  on  my  breast  than  if  I  had  been  a 
most  terrible  criminal,  I  dare  say,  and  the  longer 
I  thought  of  it  the  greater  the  offense  seemed. 

It  had  begun  to  grow  dark,  and  I  had  shut  the 
window  (I  had  been  lying,  for  the  most  part,  with 
my  head  upon  the  sill,  by  turns  crying,  dozing, 
and  looking  listlessly  out),  when  the  key  was 
turned,  and  Miss  Murdstone  came  in  with  some 
bread  and  meat  and  milk.  These  she  put  down 
upon  the  table  without  a  word,  glaring  at  me  the 
while  and  then  retired,  locking  the  door  after 
her. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  waking  next  morning; 
the  being  cheerful  and  fresh  for  the  first  moment, 
and  then  the  being  weighed  down  by  the  stale 
and  dismal    oppression   of    remembrance.     Miss 


I40  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

Murdstone  came  again  before  I  was  out  of  bed; 
told  me,  in  so  many  words,  that  I  was  free  to  walk 
in  the  garden  for  half  an  hour  and  no  longer; 
retired,  leaving  the  door  open,  that  I  might  avail 
myself  of  that  permission. 

I  did  so,  and  did  so  every  morning  of  my  im- 
prisonment, which  lasted  five  days.  If  I  could 
have  seen  my  mother  alone,  I  should  have  gone 
down  on  my  knees  to  her  and  besought  her  for- 
giveness; but  I  saw  no  one,  Miss  Murdstone  ex- 
cepted, during  the  whole  time. 

The  length  of  those  five  days  I  can  convey  no 
idea  of  to  anyone.  They  occupy  the  place  of 
years  in  my  remembrance. 

On  the  last  night  of  my  restraint,  I  was  awaken- 
ed by  hearing  my  own  name  spoken  in  a  whisper. 
I  started  up  in  bed,  and,  putting  out  my  arms  in 
the  dark,  said : 

*'Is  that  you,  Peggotty?" 

There  was  no  immediate  answer,  but  presently 
I  heard  my  name  again,  in  a  tone  so  very  mysteri- 
ous and  awful,  that  I  think  I  should  have  gone 
into  a  fit,  if  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  it  must 
have  come  through  the  keyhole. 

I  groped  my  way  to  the  door,  and,  putting  my 
own  lips  to  the  keyhole,  whispered : 

"Is  that  you,  Peggotty,  dear?" 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       141 

*'Yes,  my  own  precious  Davy, "  she  replied. 
**  Be  as  soft  as  a  mouse,  or  the  cat '11  hear  us." 

I  understood  this  to  mean  Miss  Murdstone, 
and  knew  that  we  must  be  careful  and  quiet  ;her 
room  being  close  by. 

"How's  mamma,  dear  Peggotty?  Is  she  very 
angry  with  me?" 

I  could  hear  Peggotty  crying  softly  on  her  side 
of  the  keyhole,  as  I  was  doing  on  mine,  before  she 
answered.     "No.     Not  very." 

"What  is  going  to  be  done  with  me,  Peggotty, 
dear?     Do  you  know?" 

"School.  Near  London,"  was  Peggotty's  an- 
swer. I  was  obliged  to  get  her  to  repeat  it,  for 
she  spoke  it  the  first  time  quite  down  my  throat 
in  consequence  of  my  having  forgotten  to  take 
my  mouth  away  from  the  keyhole  and  put  my 
ear  there;  and,  though  her  words  tickled  me  a 
good  deal,  I  didn't  hear  them. 

"When,  Peggotty?" 

"To-morrow." 

"Is  that  the  reason  why  Miss  Murdstone  took 
the  clothes  out  of  my  drawers?"  which  she  had 
done,  though  I  have  forgotten  to  mention  it. 

"Yes,"  said  Peggotty.     "Box." 

"Shan't  I  see  mamma?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peggotty.     "Morning." 


142  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

Then  Peggotty  fitted  her  mouth  close  to  the 
keyhole,  and  spoke  these  words  through  it  with 
as  much  feeling  and  earnestness  as  a  keyhole  has 
ever  been  the  means  of  communicating,  I  will 
venture  to  say,  shooting  in  each  broken  little 
sentence  in  a  convulsive  little  burst  of  its  own. 

"Davy,  dear.  If  I  ain't  been  azackly  as  inti- 
mate with  you.  Lately,  as  I  used  to  be.  It 
ain't  because  I  don't  love  you.  Just  as  well  and 
more,  my  pretty  poppet.  It's  because  I  thought 
it  better  for  you.  And  for  someone  else  besides. 
Davy,  my  darHng,  are  you  listening?  Can  you 
hear?" 

"Ye — ye — ye — yes,  Peggotty!"     I  sobbed. 

"My  own!"  said  Peggotty,  with  infinite  com- 
passion. "What  I  want  to  say,  is.  That  you 
must  never  forget  me.  For  I'll  never  forget  you. 
And  I'll  take  as  much  care  of  your  mamma,  Davy. 
As  I  ever  took  of  you.  And  I  won't  leave  her. 
The  day  may  come  when  she'll  be  glad  to  lay 
her  poor  head.  On  her  stupid,  cross  old  Peg- 
gotty's  arm  again.  And  I'll  write  to  you,  my 
dear.  Though  I  ain't  no  scholar.  And  I'll — 
I'll—"  Peggotty  fell  to  kissing  the  keyhole,  as  she 
couldn't  kiss  me. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Peggotty!"  said  I.  "Oh, 
thank  you!     Thank  you!     Will  you  promise  me 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       143 

one  thing,  Peggotty?  Will  you  write  and  tell 
Mr.  Peggotty  and  little  Em'ly  and  Mrs.  Gum- 
midge  and  Ham  that  I  am  not  so  bad  as  they 
might  suppose,  and  that  I  sent  'em  all  my  love — 
especially  to  little  Em'ly?  Will  you,  if  you  please, 
Peggotty?" 

The  kind  soul  promised,  and  we  both  of  us 
kissed  the  keyhole  with  the  greatest  affection — I 
patted  it  with  my  hand,  I  recollect,  as  if  it  had 
been  her  honest  face — and  parted. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Murdstone  appeared  as 
usual,  and  told  me  I  was  going  to  school;  which 
was  not  altogether  such  new^s  to  me  as  she  sup- 
posed. She  also  informed  me  that  when  I  was 
dressed,  I  was  to  come  down-stairs  into  the  parlor 
and  have  my  breakfast.  There  I  found  my 
mother,  very  pale  and  with  red  eyes ;  into  whose 
arms  I  ran,  and  begged  her  pardon  from  my 
suffering  soul. 

"Oh,  Davy!"  she  said.  ''That  you  could  hurt 
anyone  I  love!  Try  to  be  better,  pray  to  be 
better!  I  forgive  you;  but  I  am  so  grieved, 
Davy,  that  you  should  have  such  bad  passions  in 
your  heart." 

Miss  Murdstone  was  good  enough  to  take  me  out 
to  the  cart,  and  to  say  on  the  w^ay  that  she  hoped 
I  would  repent,  before  I  came  to  a  bad  end ;  and 


144  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

then  I  got  into  the  cart,  and  the  lazy  horse  walked 
off  with  it. 

We  might  have  gone  about  half  a  mile,  and  my 
pocket  handkerchief  was  quite  wet  through, 
when  the  carrier  stopped  short. 

Looking  out  to  ascertain  for  what,  I  saw,  to  my 
amazement,  Peggotty  burst  from  a  hedge  and 
climb  into  the  cart.  She  took  me  in  both  her 
arms  and  squeezed  me  until  the  pressure  on  my 
nose  was  extremely  painful,  though  I  never 
thought  of  that  till  afterwards,  when  I  found  it 
very  tender.  Not  a  single  word  did  Peggotty  speak, 
releasing  one  of  her  arms,  she  put  it  down  in  her 
pocket  to  the  elbow,  and  brought  out  some  paper- 
bags  of  cakes,  which  she  crammed  into  my  pockets, 
and  a  purse  which  she  put  into  my  hand,  but  not 
one  word  did  she  say.  After  another  and  a  final 
squeeze  with  both  arms,  she  got  down  from  the 
cart  and  ran  away ;  and  my  belief  is,  and  has  al- 
ways been,  without  a  solitary  button  on  her  gown. 
I  picked  up  one,  of  several  that  was  rolling  about, 
and  treasured  it  as  a  keepsake  for  a  long  time. 

The  carrier  looked  at  me,  as  if  to  inquire  if  she 
were  coming  back.  I  shook  my  head,  and  said 
I  thought  not.  'Then  come  up !"  said  the  carrier 
to  the  lazy  horse,  who  came  up  accordingly. 

Having  by  this  time  cried  as  much  as  I  possibly 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       i45 

could,  I  began  to  think  it  was  of  no  use  crying  any 
more.  The  carrier  seeing  me  in  this  resolution, 
proposed  that  my  pocket  handkerchief  should 
be  spread  upon  the  horse's  back  to  dry.  I 
thanked  him  and  agreed ;  and  particularly  small 
it  looked  under  those  circumstances. 

I  had  now  time  to  examine  the  purse.  It  was  a 
stiff  leather  purse,  with  a  snap,  and  had  three 
bright  shillings  in  it,  which  Peggotty  had  evidently 
polished  up  with  whitening,  for  my  greater  de- 
light. But  its  precious  contents  were  two  half- 
crowns  folded  together  in  a  bit  of  paper,  on  which 
was  written,  in  my  mother's  hand,  "For  Davy. 
With  my  love."  I  was  so  overcome  by  this, 
that  I  asked  the  carrier  to  be  so  good  as  reach 
me  my  pocket  handkerchief  again,  but  he  said 
he  thought  I  had  better  do  without  it;  and  I 
thought  I  really  had;  so  I  wiped  my  eyes  on  my 
sleeve  and  stopped  myself. 

For  good,  too;  though,  in  consequence  of  my 
previous  feelings,  I  was  still  occasionally  seized 
with  a  stormy  sob.  After  we  had  jogged  on  for 
some  little  time,  I  asked  the  carrier  if  he  was  going 

all  the  way. 

*'A11  the  way  where?"  inquired  the  carrier. 

"There,"  I  said. 

"Where's  there?"  inquired  the  carrier. 


146  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Near  London,"    I  said. 

"Why,  that  horse,"  said  the  carrier,  jerking  the 
rein  to  point  him  out,  "would  be  deader  than  pork 
afore  he  got  over  half  the  ground." 

"Are  you  only  going  to  Yarmouth  then?"  I 
asked. 

"That's  about  it, "  said  the  carrier.  "And  there 
I  shall  take  you  to  the  stage-cutch,  and  the  stage- 
cutch  that'll  take  you  to — wherever  it  is." 

I  shared  my  cakes  with  the  carrier,  who  asked 
if  Peggotty  made  them,  and  told  him  yes,  she  did 
all  our  cooking.  The  carrier  looked  thoughtful, 
and  then  asked  if  I  would  send  a  message  to  Peg- 
gotty from  him.  I  agreed,  and  the  message  was 
"Barkis  is  willing."  While  I  was  waiting  for  the 
coach  at  Yarmouth,  I  wrote  to  Peggotty : 

"My  dear  Peggotty: — I  have  come  here  safe. 
Barkis  is  willing.  My  love  to  mamma.  Yours 
affectionately. 

"P.  S. — He  says  he  particularly  wanted  you  to 
know  Barkis  is  willing.'' 

At  Yarmouth  I  found  dinner  was  ordered  for 
me,  and  felt  very  shy  at  having  a  table  all  to  my- 
self, and  very  much  alarmed  when  the  waiter  told 
me  he  had  seen  a  gentleman  fall  down  dead  after 
drinking  some  of  their  beer.  I  said  I  would  have 
some  water,  and  was  quite  grateful  to  the  waiter 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       147 

for  drinking  the  ale  that  had  been  ordered  for  me, 
for  fear  the  people  of  the  hotel  should  be  offended. 
He  also  helped  me  to  eat  my  dinner,  and  accepted 
one  of  my  bright  shillings. 

After  a  long,  tiring  journey  by  the  coach,  for 
there  were  no  trains  in  those  days,  I  arrived  in 
London  and  was  taken  to  the  school  at  Black- 
heath,  by  one  of  the  masters,  Mr.  Mell. 

I  gazed  upon  the  schoolroom  into  which  he  took 
me,  as  the  most  forlorn  and  desolate  place  I  had 
ever  seen.  I  see  it  now.  A  long  room,  with  three 
long  rows  of  desks,  and  six  of  long  seats,  bristling 
all  round  with  pegs  for  hats  and  slates.  Scraps 
of  old  copy-books  and  exercises  litter  the  dirty 
floor. 

Mr.  Mell  having  left  me  for  a  few  moments,  I 
went  softly  to  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  observ- 
ing all  this  as  I  crept  along.  Suddenly  I  came 
upon  a  pasteboard  placard,  beautifully  written 
which  was  lying  on  the  desk,  and  bore  these 
words — ''Take  care  of  him.     He  bites.'' 

I  got  upon  the  desk  immediately,  afraid  of  at 
least  a  great  dog  underneath.  But,  though  I 
looked  all  round  with  anxious  eyes,  I  could  see 
nothing  of  him.  I  was  still  engaged  in  peering 
about  when  Mr.  Mell  came  back,  and  asked  me 
what  I  did  up  there. 


us  OICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'*  says  I,  *'if  you  please, 
I'm  looking  for  the  dog." 

"Dog?"  says  he.     "What  dog?" 

"Isn't  it  a  dog,  sir?" 

"Isn't  what  a  dog?" 

"That's  to  be  taken  care  of,  sir;  that  bites." 

"No,  Copperfield,"  says  he,  gravely,  "that's  not 
a  dog.  That's  a  boy.  My  instructions  are, 
Copperfield,  to  put  this  placard  on  your  back. 
I  am  sorry  to  make  such  a  beginning  with  you, 
but  I  must  do  it." 

With  that,  he  took  me  down,  and  tied  the  pla- 
card,  which  was  neatly  constructed  for  the  pur- 
pose, on  my  shoulders  like  a  knapsack;  and 
wherever  I  went,  afterwards,  I  had  the  consolation 
of  carrying  it. 

What  I  suffered  from  that  placard,  nobody 
can  imagine.  Whether  it  was  possible  for  people 
to  see  me  or  not,  I  always  fancied  that  somebody 
was  reading  it.  It  was  no  relief  to  turn  round  and 
find  nobody;  for  wherever  my  back  was,  there  I 
imagined  somebody  always  to  be. 

There  was  an  old  door  in  this  playground,  on 
which  the  boys  had  a  custom  of  carving  their 
names.  It  was  completely  covered  with  such 
inscriptions.  In  my  dread  of  the  end  of  the  vaca- 
tion  and    their  coming  back,    I  could  not  read 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       149 

one  boy's  name,  without  inquiring  in  what  tone 
and  with  what  emphasis  he  would  read,  "Take 
care  of  him.  He  bites."  There  was  one  boy— a 
certain  J.  Steerforth — who  cut  his  name  very 
deep  and  very  often,  who,  I  conceived,  would  read 
it  in  a  rather  strong  voice,  and  afterwards  pull  my 
hair.  There  was  another  boy,  one  Tommy  Trad- 
dies,  who  I  dreaded  would  make  game  of  it,  and 
pretend  to  be  dreadfully  frightened  of  me.  There 
was  a  third,  George  Demple,  who  I  fancied  would 
sing  it.  I  have  looked,  a  little  shrinking  creature, 
at  that  door,  until  the  owners  of  all  the  names — 
there  were  five-and-forty  of  them  in  the  school 
then,  Mr.  Mell  said— seemed  to  cry  out,  each  in 
his  own  way,  "Take  care  of  him.     He  bites!" 

Tommy  Traddles  was  the  first  boy  who  re- 
turned. He  introduced  himself  by  informing  me 
that  I  should  find  his  name  on  the  right-hand 
comer  of  the  gate,  over  the  top  bolt ;  upon  that 
I  said,  "Traddles?"  to  which  he  replied,  "The 
same,"  and  then  he  asked  me  for  a  full  account  of 
myself  and  family. 

It  was  fortunate  for  me  that  Traddles  came 
back  first.  He  enjoyed  my  placard  so  much  that 
he  saved  me  from  the  embarrassment  of  either 
telling  about  it  or  trying  to  hide  it  by  presenting 
me  to  every  other  boy  who  came  back,  great  or 


I50  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

small,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  in  this  form 
of  introduction,  "Look  here!  Here's  a  game!" 
Happily,  too,  the  greater  part  of  the  boys  came 
back  low-spirited,  and  were  not  so  boisterous  at 
my  expense  as  I  had  expected.  Some  of  them 
certainly  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  pre- 
tending that  I  was  a  dog,  and  patting  and  smooth- 
ing me  lest  I  should  bite,  and  saying,  **Lie  down, 
sir!"  and  calling  me  Towzer.  This  was  naturally 
confusing,  among  so  many  strangers,  and  cost  some 
tears,  but  on  the  whole  it  was  much  better  than 
I  had  anticipated. 

I  was  not  considered  as  being  formally  received 
into  the  school,  however,  until  J.  Steerforth  ar- 
rived. Before  this  boy,  who  was  reputed  to  be 
a  great  scholar,  and  was  very  good-looking,  and  at 
least  half-a-dozen  years  older  than  I,  I  was  carried 
as  before  a  judge.  He  inquired,  under  a  shed  in 
the  playground,  into  the  particulars  of  my  punish- 
ment, and  was  pleased  to  express  his  opinion  that 
it  was  a  "jolly  shame;"  for  which  I  became  bound 
to  him  ever  afterwards. 

"What  money  have  you  got,  Copperfield?" 
he  said,  walking  aside  with  me  when  he  had  dis- 
posed of  my  affair  in  these  terms. 

I  told  him  seven  shillings. 

"You  had  better  give  it  to  me  to  take  care  of," 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       151 

he  said.  "At  least,  you  can,  if  you  like.  You 
needn't  if  you  don't  like." 

I  hastened  to  comply  with  his  friendly  sug- 
gestion, and,  opening  Peggotty's  purse,  turned 
it  upside  down  into  his  hand. 

"Do  you  want  to  spend  anything  now?"  he 
asked  me. 

"No,  thank  you,"  I  replied. 

"You  can,  if  you  like,  you  know,"  said  Steer- 
forth.     "Say  the  word." 

"No,  thank  you,  sir,"  I  repeated. 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  to  spend  a  couple  of  shil- 
lings or  so  in  a  bottle  of  cuiTant  wine  by-and-by, 
up  in  the  bedroom?"  said  Steerforth.  "You 
belong  to  my  bedroom,  I  find." 

It  certainly  had  not  occurred  to  me  before,  but 
I  said,  Yes,  I  should  like  that. 

"Very  good,"  said  Steerforth.  "  You'll  be  glad 
to  spend  another  shilling  or  so  in  almond  cakes, 
I  dare  say?" 

I  said,  "Yes,  I  should  Hke  that,  too." 

"And  another  shilling  or  so  in  biscuits,  and  an- 
other in  fruit,  eh?"  said  Steerforth.  "I  say, 
young  Copperfield,  you're  going  it!" 

I  smiled  because  he  smiled,  but  I  was  a  little 
troubled  in  my  mind,  too. 

"Well!"  said  Steerforth.     "We  must  make  it 


152  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

stretch  as  far  as  we  can;  that's  all.  I'll  do  the 
best  in  my  power  for  you.  I  can  go  out  when  I 
like,  and  I'll  smuggle  the  prog  in."  With  these 
words  he  put  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and  kindly 
told  me  not  to  make  myself  uneasy ;  he  would  take 
care  it  should  be  all  right. 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  if  that  were  all 
right  which  I  had  a  secret  misgiving  was  nearly 
all  wrong — for  I  feared  it  was  a  waste  of  my 
mother's  two  half-crowns — though  I  had  pre- 
served the  piece  of  paper  they  were  wrapped  in; 
which  was  a  precious  saving.  When  we  went  up- 
stairs to  bed,  he  produced  the  whole  seven  shillings 
worth,  and  laid  it  out  on  my  bed  in  the  moonlight, 
saying : 

''There  you  are,  young  Copperfield,  and  a  royal 
spread  youVe  got!" 

I  couldn't  think  of  doing  the  honors  of  the  feast 
at  my  time  of  life,  while  he  was  by;  my  hand 
shook  at  the  very  thought  of  it.  I  begged  him 
to  do  me  the  favor  of  taking  charge  of  the  treat ; 
and  my  request  being  seconded  by  the  other  boys 
who  were  in  that  room,  he  agreed  to  it,  and  sat 
upon  my  pillow,  handing  round  the  food — with 
perfect  fairness,  I  must  say — and  giving  out  the 
currant  wine  in  a  little  glass  without  a  foot, 
which  was  his  own  property.     As  to  me,  I  sat 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       153 

on  his  left  hand,  and  the  rest  were  grouped  about 
us,  on  the  nearest  beds  and  on  the  floor. 

How  well  I  recollect  our  sitting  there,  talking 
in  whispers ;  or  their  talking,  and  my  respectfully 
listening,  I  ought  rather  to  say;  the  moonlight 
falling  a  little  way  into  the  room,  through  the 
window,  painting  a  pale  window  on  the  floor,  and 
the  greater  part  of  us  in  shadow,  except  when 
Steerforth  scratched  a  match,  when  he  wanted  to 
look  for  anything  on  the  board,  and  shed  a  blue 
glare  over  us  that  was  gone  directly!  A  certain 
mysterious  feeling,  consequent  on  the  darkness, 
the  secrecy  of  the  revel,  and  the  whisper  in  which 
everything  was  said,  steals  over  me  again,  and  I 
listen  to  all  they  tell  me,  with  a  vague  feeling  of 
solemnity  and  awe,  which  makes  me  glad  they  are 
all  so  near,  and  frightens  me  (though  I  feign  to 
laugh)  when  Traddles  pretends  to  see  a  ghost  in 
the  comer. 

I  heard  all  kinds  of  things  about  the  school 
and  all  belonging  to  it.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Creakle 
was  the  sternest  and  most  severe  of  masters; 
that  he  laid  about  him,  right  and  left,  every  day 
of  his  life,  charging  in  among  the  boys  like  a 
trooper,  and  slashing  away,  unmercifully. 

I  heard  that  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg, 
whose  name  was  Tungay,  was  an  obstinate  fellow 


154  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

who  had  formerly  been  in  the  hop  business,  bat 
had  come  into  the  Hne  with  Mr.  Creakle,  in  conse- 
quence, as  was  supposed  among  the  boys,  of  his 
having  broken  his  leg  in  Mr.  Creakle 's  service,  and 
having  done  a  deal  of  dishonest  work  for  him,  and 
knowing  his  secrets. 

But  the  greatest  wonder  that  I  heard  of  Mr. 
Creakle  was,  there  being  one  boy  in  the  school  on 
whom  he  never  ventured  to  lay  a  hand,  and  that 
that  boy  being  J.  Steerforth.  Steerforth  himself 
confirmed  this  when  it  was  stated,  and  said  that  he 
should  like  to  begin  to  see  him  do  it.  On  being 
asked  by  a  mild  boy  (not  me)  how  he  would  pro- 
ceed if  he  did  begin  to  see  him  do  it,  he 
scratched  a  match  on  purpose  to  shed  a  glare  over 
his  reply,  and  said  he  would  commence  with  knock- 
ing him  down  with  a  blow  on  the  forehead  from  the 
seven-and-six-penny  ink-bottle  that  was  always 
on  the  mantelpiece.  We  sat  in  the  dark  for  some 
time,  breathless. 

I  heard  that  Miss  Creakle  was  regarded  by  the 
school  in  general  as  being  in  love  with  Steerforth ; 
and  I  am  sure,  as  I  sat  in  the  dark,  thinking  of 
his  nice  voice,  and  his  fine  face,  and  his  easy 
manner,  and  his  curling  hair,  I  thought  it  very 
likely.  I  heard  that  Mr.  Mell  was  not  a  bad  sort 
of  fellow,  but  hadn't  a  sixpence  to  bless  himself 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD      155 

with;  and  that  there  was  no  doubt  that  old  Mrs. 
Mell,  his  mother,  was  as  poor  as  Job. 

One  day,  Traddles  (the "most  imfortixnate  boy 
in  the  world)  breaks  a  window  accidentally  with  a 
ball.  I  shudder  at  this  moment  with  the  tre- 
mendous sensation  of  seeing  it  done,  and  feeling 
that  the  ball  has  bounded  on  to  Mr.  Creakle's 
sacred  head. 

Poor  Traddles!  In  a  tight  sky-blue  suit  that 
made  his  arms  and  legs  like  German  sausages,  or 
roly-poly  puddings,  he  was  the  merriest  and  most 
miserable  of  all  the  boys.  He  was  always  being 
caned — I  think  he  was  caned  every  day  that  half- 
year,  except  one  holiday  Monday,  when  he  was 
only  rulered  on  both  hands — and  was  always 
going  to  write  to  his  uncle  about  it,  and  never  did. 
After  laying  his  head  on  the  desk  for  a  little  while, 
he  would  cheer  up  somehow,  begin  to  laugh  again, 
and  draw  skeletons  all  over  his  slate  before  his 
eyes  were  dry.  I  used  at  first  to  wonder  what 
comfort  Traddles  found  in  drawing  skeletons. 
But  I  believe  he  only  did  it  because  they  were 
easy,  and  didn't  want  any  features. 

He  was  very  honorable,  Traddles  was ;  and  held 
it  as  a  solemn  duty  in  the  boys  to  stand  by  one 
another.  He  suffered  for  this  on  several  occa- 
sions; and    particularly   once,   when    Steerforth 


156  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

laughed  in  church,  and  the  beadle  thought  it  was 
Traddles,  and  took  him  out.  I  see  him  now, 
going  away  under  guard,  despised  by  the  con- 
gregation. He  never  said  who  was  the  real 
offender,  though  he  smarted  for  it  next  day,  and 
was  imprisoned  so  many  hours  that  he  came  forth 
with  a  whole  churchyard  full  of  skeletons  swaiming 
all  over  his  Latin  Dictionary.  But  he  had  his 
reward.  Steerf  orth  said  there  was  nothing  of  the 
sneak  in  Traddles,  and  we  all  felt  that  to  be  the 
highest  praise.  For  my  part,  I  could  have  gone 
through  a  great  deal  (though  I  was  much  less 
brave  than  Traddles,  and  nothing  like  so  old)  to 
have  won  such  a  reward,  as  praise  from  J.  Steer- 
forth. 

To  see  Steerforth  walk  to  church  before  us, 
arm-in-arm  with  Miss  Creakle,  was  one  of  the 
great  sights  of  my  life.  I  didn't  think  Miss 
Creakle  equal  to  little  Em'ly  in  point  of  beauty, 
and  I  didn't  love  her  (I  didn't  dare) ;  but  I  thought 
her  a  young  lady  of  extraordinary  attractions, 
and  in  point  of  gentility  not  to  be  surpassed. 
When  Steerforth,  in  white  trousers,  carried  her 
parasol  for  her,  I  felt  proud  to  know  him;  and 
believed  that  she  could  not  choose  but  adore  him 
with  all  her  heart.  Mr.  Sharp  and  Mr.  Mell  were 
were  both  great  personages  in  my  eyes ;  but  Steer- 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD      157 

forth  was  to  them  what  the  sun  was  to  two  stars. 
An  accidental  matter  strengthened  the  friend- 
ship between  Steerforth  and  me,  in  a  manner  that 
inspired  me  with  great  pride  and  satisfaction, 
though  it  sometimes  led  to  inconvenience.  It 
happened  on  one  occasion,  when  he  was  doing  me 
the  honor  of  talking  to  me  in  the  playground 
that  I  remarked  that  something  or  somebody — I 
forget  what  now — was  like  something  or  somebody 
in  the  story  of  Peregrine  Pickle.  He  said  nothing 
at  the  time ;  but  when  I  was  going  to  bed  at  night, 
asked  me  if  I  had  got  that  book. 

I  told  him  no,  and  explained  how  it  was  that  I 
had  read  it,  and  all  those  other  books  of  which  I 
had  made  mention. 

"And  do  you  recollect  them?"  Steerforth  said. 

**0h  yes,"  I  replied ;  I  had  a  good  memory,  and 
I  beUeved  I  recollected  them  very  well. 

"Then  I  tell  you  what,  young  Copperfield,"  said 
Steerforth,  "you  shall  tell  'em  to  me. .  I  can't  get 
to  sleep  very  early  at  night,  and  I  generally  wake 
rather  early  in  the  morning.  We'll  go  over  'em 
one  after  another.  We'll  make  some  regular 
Arabian  Nights  of  it." 

I  felt  extremely  flattered  by  this  arrangement, 
and  we  commenced  carrying  out  the  plan  that  very 
evening. 


iS8  DICKENS*  CHILDREN 

Steerforth  showed  his  thought  for  me  in  one 
particular  instance,  in  an  unflinching  manner  that 
was  a  httle  troublesome,  to  poor  Traddles  and  the 
rest.  Peggotty's  promised  letter — what  a  com- 
fortable letter  it  was! — arrived  before  "the  half* 
of  the  school-term  was  many  weeks  old ;  and  with 
it  a  cake  in  a  perfect  nest  of  oranges,  and  two 
bottles  of  cowslip  wine.  This  treasure,  as  in  duty 
bound,  I  laid  at  the  feet  of  Steerforth,  and  begged 
him  to  divide  it  among  the  boys. 

"Now,  rU  tell  you  what,  young  Copperfield, " 
said  he,  "the  wine  shall  be  kept  to  wet  your  whistle 
when  you  are  story-telling." 

I  blushed  at  the  idea,  and  begged  him,  in  my 
modesty,  not  to  think  of  it.  But  he  said  he  had 
observed  I  was  sometimes  hoarse — a  little  roopy 
was  his  exact  expression — and  it  should  be,  every 
drop,  set  apart  to  the  purpose  he  had  mentioned. 
Accordingly,  it  was  locked  up  in  his  box,  and 
drawn  off  by  himself  in  a  phial,  and  administered 
to  me  through  a  piece  of  quill  in  the  cork,  when  I 
was  supposed  to  be  in  want  of  something  to  re- 
store my  voice.  Sometimes,  to  make  it  more 
powerful,  he  was  so  kind  as  to  squeeze  orange 
juice  into  it,  or  to  stir  it  up  with  ginger,  or  dissolve 
a  peppermint  drop  in  it. 

We  seem    to  me  to  have   been  months  over 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD      159 

Peregrine,  and  months  more  over  the  other  stories. 
The  school  never  flagged  for  want  of  a  story,  I  am 
certain;  and  the  wine  lasted  out  almost  as  well 
as  the  matter.  Poor  Traddles — I  never  think  of 
that  boy  but  with  a  strange  disposition  to  laugh, 
and  with  tears  in  my  eyes — was  a  sort  of  echo 
to  the  story;  and  pretended  to  be  overcome  with 
laughing  at  the  funny  parts,  and  to  be  overcome 
with  fear  when  there  was  any  passage  of  an  alarm- 
ing character  in  the  story.  This  rather  put  me  out 
very  often.  It  was  a  great  jest  of  his,  I  recollect, 
to  pretend  that  he  couldn't  keep  his  teeth  from 
chattering,  whenever  mention  was  made  of  an 
Alguazil  in  connection  with  the  adventures  of 
Gil  Bias ;  and  I  remember  when  Gil  Bias  met  the 
captain  of  the  robbers  in  Madrid,  this  unlucky 
joker  acted  such  a  shudder  of  terror  that  he  was 
overheard  by  Mr.  Creakle,  who  was  prowling  about 
the  passage,  and  handsomely  flogged  for  disorderly 
conduct  in  the  bedroom. 

One  day  I  had  a  visit  from  Mr.  Peggotty  and 
Ham,  who  had  brought  two  enormous  lobsters, 
a  huge  crab,  and  a  large  canvas  bag  of  shrimps, 
as  they  "remembered  I  was  partial  to  a  relish 
with  my  meals." 

I  was  proud  to  introduce  my  friend  Steerforth 
to  these  kind,  simple  friends,  and  told  them  how 


i6o  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

good  Stcerforth  was  to  me,  and  how  he  helped 
me  with  my  work  and  took  care  of  me,  and  Steer- 
forth  delighted  the  fishermen  with  his  friendly, 
pleasant  manners. 

The  'Relish"  was  greatly  enjoyed  by  the  boys 
at  supper  that  night.  Only  poor  Traddles  became 
very  ill  from  eating  crab  so  late. 

At  last  the  holidays  came,  and  I  went  home. 
The  carrier,  Barkis,  met  me  at  Yarmouth,  and 
was  rather  gruff,  which  I  soon  found  out  was  be- 
cause he  had  not  had  any  answer  to  his  message. 
I  promised  to  ask  Peggotty  for  one. 

Ah,  what  a  strange  feeling  it  was  to  be  going 
home  when  it  was  not  home,  and  to  find  that  every 
object  I  looked  at  reminded  me  of  the  happy  old 
home,  which  was  like  a  dream  I  could  never  dream 

again ! 

God  knows  how  like  a  child  the  memory  may 
have  been  that  was  awakened  within  me  by  the 
sound  of  my  mother's  voice  in  the  old  parlor,  when 
I  set  foot  in  the  hall. 
'  I  believed,  from  the  solitary  and  thoughtful 
way  in  which  my  mother  murmured  her  song, 
that  she  was  alone.  And  I  went  softly  into  the 
room.  She  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  nursing  an 
infant,  whose  tiny  hand  she  held  against  her  neck. 
Her  eyes  were  looking  down  upon, its  face,  and 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       i6i 

she  sat  singing  to  it.     I  was  so  far  right,  that  she 
had  no  other  companion. 

I  spoke  to  her,  and  she  started,  and  cried  out. 
But  seeing  me,  she  called  me  her  dear  Davy,  her 
own  boy;  and,  coming  half  across  the  room  to 
meet  me,  kneeled  down  upon  the  ground  and 
kissed  me,  and  laid  my  head  down  on  her  bosom 
near  the  little  creature  that  was  nestling  there, 
and  put  its  hand  up  to  my  lips. 

I  wish  I  had  died.  I  wish  I  had  died  then,  with 
that  feeling  in  my  heart !  I  should  have  been  more 
fit  for  heaven  than  I  ever  have  been  since. 

'*He  is  your  brother,"  said  my  mother,  fondling 
me.  "Davy,  my  pretty  boy:  my  poor  child!" 
Then  she  kissed  me  more  and  more,  and  clasped 
me  round  the  neck.  This  she  was  doing  when 
Peggotty  came  running  in,  and  bounced  down 
on  the  ground  beside  us  and  went  mad  about  us 
both  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

We  had  a  very  happy  afternoon  the  day  I 
came.  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  were  out,  and  I 
sat  with  my  mother  and  Peggotty,  and  told  them 
all  about  my  school  and  Steerforth,  and  took  the 
little  baby  in  my  arms  and  nursed  it  lovingly. 
But  when  the  Murdstones  came  back  I  was  more 
unhappy  than  ever. 

I  felt  uncomfortable  about  going  down  to  break- 


i62  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

fast  in  the  morning,  as  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  Mr. 
Murdstone  since  the  day  when  I  committed  my 
memorable  offense.  However,  as  it  must  be  done, 
I  w^ent  down,  after  two  or  three  false  starts  half- 
way, and  as  many  runs  back  on  tiptoe  to  my  own 
room,  and  presented  myself  in  the  parlor. 

He  was  standing  before  the  fire  with  his  back 
to  it,  while  Miss  Murdstone  made  the  tea.  He 
looked  at  me  steadily  as  I  entered,  but  made  no 
sign  of  recognition  whatever. 

I  went  up  to  him,  after  a  moment  of  confusion, 
and  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  am  very  sorry 
for  what  I  did,  and  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me." 

*'I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  sorry,  David,"  he 
replied. 

"How  do  you  do,  ma'am?"  I  said  to  Miss 
Murdstone. 

"Ah,  dear  me!"  sighed  Miss  Murdstone,  giving 
me  the  tea-caddy  scoop  instead  of  her  finger. 
"How  long  are  the  holidays?" 

"A  month,  ma'am." 

"Counting  from  when?" 

"From  to-day,  ma'am." 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Murdstone.  "Then  here's  one 
day  off." 

She  kept  a  calendar  of  the  holidays  in  this  way, 
and  every  morning  checked  a  day  off  in  exactly 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       163 

the  same  manner.  She  did  it  gloomily  until  she 
came  to  ten,  but  when  she  got  into  two  figures  she 
became  more  hopeful,  and,  as  the  time  advanced, 
even  jocular. 

Thus  the  holidays  lagged  away,  until  the  morn- 
ing came  when  Miss  Murdstone  said :  "Here's  the 
last  day  off!"  and  gave  me  the  closing  cup  of  tea 
of  the  vacation. 

I  was  not  sorry  to  go.  Again  Mr.  Barkis  ap- 
peared at  the  gate,  and  again  Miss  Murdstone  in 
her  warning  voice  said :  * 'Clara!"  when  my  mother 
bent  over  me,  to  bid  me  farewell. 

I  kissed  her  and  my  baby  brother ;  it  is  not  so 
much  the  embrace  she  gave  me  that  lives  in  my 
mind,  though  it  was  as  fervent  as  could  be,  as 
what  followed  the  embrace. 

I  was  in  the  carrier's  cart  when  I  heard  her 
calling  to  me.  I  looked  out,  and  she  stood  at  the 
garden  gate  alone,  holding  her  baby  up  in  her 
arms  for  me  to  see.  It  was  cold,  still  weather; 
and  not  a  hair  of  her  head,  or  fold  of  her  dress,  was 
stirred,  as  she  looked  intently  at  me,  holding  up 
her  child. 

So  I  lost  her.  So  I  saw  her  afterwards  in  my 
sleep  at  school — a  silent  presence  near  my  bed — 
looking  at  me  with  the  sam^e  intent  face — holding 
up  her  baby  in  her  arms. 


i64  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

About  two  months  after  I  had  been  back  at 
school  I  was  sent  for  one  day  to  go  into  the  parlor. 
I  hurried  in  joyfully,  for  it  was  my  birthday,  and 
I  thought  it  might  be  a  box  from  Peggotty — but, 
alas!  no;  it  was  very  sad  news  Mrs.  Creakle  had 
to  give  me — my  dear  mamma  had  died!  Mrs. 
Creakle  was  very  kind  and  gentle  to  me,  and  the 
boys,  especially  Traddles,  were  very  sorry  for  me. 

I  went  home  the  next  day,  and  heard  that  the 
dear  baby  had  died  too.  Peggotty  received  me 
with  great  tenderness,  and  told  me  about  my 
mother's  illness  and  how  she  had  sent  a  loving 
message  to  me. 

"Tell  my  dearest  boy  that  his  mother,  as  she 
lay  here,  blessed  him  not  once,  but  a  thousand 
times,"  and  she  had  prayed  to  God  to  protect  and 
keep  her  fatherless  boy. 

Mr.  Murdstone  did  not  take  any  notice  of  me, 
nor  had  Miss  Murdstone  a  word  of  kindness  for 
me.  Peggotty  was  to  leave  in  a  month,  and,  to 
my  great  joy,  I  was  allowed  to  go  with  her  on  a 
visit  to  Mr.  Peggotty.  On  our  way  I  found  out 
that  the  mysterious  message  I  had  given  to  Peg- 
gotty meant  that  Barkis  wanted  to  marry  her, 
and  Peggotty  had  consented.  Everyone  in  Mr. 
Peggotty's  cottage  was  pleased  to  see  me,  and  did 
their  best  to  comfort  me.     Little  Em'ly  was  at 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       165 

school  when  I  arrived,  and  I  went  out  to  meet  her. 
I  knew  the  way  by  which  she  would  come,  and 
presently  found  myself  strolling  along  the  path  to 
meet  her. 

A  figure  appeared  in  the  distance  before  long, 
and  I  soon  knew  it  to  be  Em'ly,  who  was  a  little 
creature  still  in  stature,  though  she  was  grown. 
But  when  she  drew  nearer,  and  I  saw  her  blue  eyes 
looking  bluer,  and  her  dimpled  face  looking 
brighter,  and  her  own  self  prettier  and  gayer,  a 
curious  feeling  came  over  me  that  made  me  pre- 
tend not  to  know  her,  and  pass  by  as  if  I  were 
looking  at  something  a  long  way  off.  I  have  done 
such  a  thing  since  in  later  life,  or  I  am  mistaken. 

Little  Em'ly  didn't  care  a  bit.  She  saw  me 
well  enough;  but  instead  of  turning  round  and 
calling  after  me,  ran  away  laughing.  This  obliged 
me  to  run  after  her,  and  she  ran  so  fast  that  we 
were  very  near  the  cottage  before  I  caught  her. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?"  said  little  Em'ly. 

**Why,  you  knew^  who  it  was,  Em'ly,"  said  I. 

''And  didn't  you  know  who  it  was?"  said  Em'ly. 
I  was  going  to  kiss  her,  but  she  covered  her  cherry 
lips  with  her  hands,  and  said  she  wasn't  a  baby 
now,  and  ran  away,  laughing  more  than  ever,  into 
the  house. 

She  seemed  to  delight  in  teasing  me,  which  was 


i66  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

a  change  in  her  I  wondered  at  very  much.  The 
tea-table  was  ready,  and  otir  Httle  locker  was  put 
out  in  its  old  place,  but  instead  of  coming  to  sit 
by  me,  she  went  and  bestowed  her  company  upon 
that  grumbling  Mrs.  Gummidge;  and  on  Mr. 
Peggotty's  inquiring  why,  rumpled  her  hair  all 
over  her  face  to  hide  it,  and  would  do  nothing 
but  laugh. 

''A  little  puss  it  is!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  patting 
her  with  his  great  hand. 

'*Ah,"  said  Peggotty,  running  his  fingers  through 
her  bright  curls,  ''here's  another  orphan,  you  see, 
sir,  and  here,"  giving  Ham  a  backhanded  knock 
in  the  chest,  "is  another  of  'em,  though  he  don't 
look  much  like  it." 

"If  I  had  you  for  a  guardian,  Mr.  Peggotty," 
said  I,  "I  don't  think  I  should  feel  much  like  it." 

Em'ly  was  confused  by  our  all  observing  her, 
and  hung  down  her  head,  and  her  face  was  covered 
wdth  blushes.  Glancing  up  presently  through 
her  stray  curls,  and  seeing  that  we  were  all  looking 
at  her  still  (I  am  sure  I,  for  one,  could  have  looked 
at  her  for  hours),  she  ran  away,  and  kept  away 
till  it  was  nearly  bedtime. 

I  lay  down  in  the  old  little  bed  in  the  stem  of 
the  boat,  and  the  wind  came  moaning  on  across 
the  flat  as  it  had  done  before.     But  I  could  not 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       167 

help  fancying,  now  that  it  moaned,  of  those  who 
were  gone;  and  instead  of  thinking  that  the  sea 
might  rise  in  the  night  and  float  the  boat  away, 
I  thought  of  the  sea  that  had  risen,  since  I  last 
heard  those  sounds,  and  drowned  my  happy 
home.  I  recollect,  as  the  wind  and  water  began 
to  sound  fainter  in  my  ears,  putting  a  short  clause 
into  my  prayers,  petitioning  that  I  might  grow 
up  to  marry  little  Em'ly,  and  so  dropping  lovingly 
asleep. 

During  this  visit  Peggotty  was  married  to  Mr. 
Barkis,  and  had  a  nice  little  house  of  her  own,  and 
I  spent  the  night  before  I  was  to  return  home  in  a 
little  room  in  the  roof. 

''Young  or  old,  Davy  dear,  so  long  as  I  have 
this  house  over  my  head,"  said  Peggotty,  "you 
shall  find  it  as  if  I  expected  you  here  directly 
every  minute.  I  shall  keep  it  as  I  used  to  keep 
your  old  little  room,  my  darling,  and  if  you  was 
to  go  to  China,  you  might  think  of  its  being  kept 
just  the  same  all  the  time  you  were  away." 

I  felt  how  good  and  true  a  friend  she  was,  and 
thanked  her  as  well  as  I  could,  for  they  had 
brought  me  to  the  gate  of  my  home,  and  Peggotty 
had  me  clasped  in  her  arms. 

I  was  poor  and  lonely  at  home,  with  no  one  near 
to  speak  a  loving  word,  or  a  face  to  look  on  with 


i68  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

love  or  liking,  only  the  two  persons  who  had 
broken  my  mother's  heart.  How  utterly  wretched 
and  forlorn  I  felt !  I  found  I  was  not  to  go  back 
to  school  any  more,  and  wandered  about  sad  and 
solitary,  neglected  and  uncared  for.  Peggotty's 
weekly  visits  were  my  only  comfort.  I  longed  to 
go  to  school,  however  hard  an  one,  to  be  taught 
something  anyhow,  anywhere — ^but  no  one  took 
any  pains  with  me,  and  I  had  no  friends  near  who 
could  help  me. 

At  last  one  day,  after  some  weary  months  had 
passed,  Mr.  Murdstone  told  me  I  was  to  go  to 
London  and  earn  my  own  living.  There  was  a 
place  for  me  at  Murdstone  &  Grinby's,  a  firm  in 
the  wine  trade.  My  lodging  and  clothes  would  be 
provided  for  me  by  my  step-father,  and  I  would 
earn  enough  for  my  food  and  pocket  money. 
The  next  day,  I  was  sent  up  to  London  with  the 
manager,  dressed  in  a  shabby  little  white  hat  with 
black  crape  round  it  for  my  mother,  a  black 
jacket,  and  hard,  stiff  corduroy  trousers,  a  little 
fellow  of  ten  years  old,  to  fight  my  own  battles 
with  the  world ! 

My  place,  I  found,  was  one  of  the  lowest  in  the 
firm  of  Murdstone  &  Grinby,  with  boys  of  no  edu- 
cation and  in  quite  an  inferior  station  to  myself — 
my  duties  were  to  wash  the  bottles,  stick  on  labels, 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       169 

and  so  on  I  was  utterly  miserable  at  being 
degraded  in  this  way,  when  I  thought  of  my 
former  companions,  Steerforth  and  Traddles,  and 
my  hopes  of  becoming  a  learned  and  famous  man, 
and  shed  bitter  tears,  as  I  feared  I  would  forget 
all  I  had  learnt  at  school.  My  lodging,  one  bare 
little  room,  was  in  the  house  of  some  people 
named  Micawber,  shiftless,  careless,  good-natured 
people,  who  were  always  in  debt  and  difficulties. 
I  felt  great  pity  for  their  misfortunes  and  did  what 
I  could  to  help  poor  Mrs.  Micawber  to  sell  her 
books  and  other  little  things  she  could  spare,  to 
buy  food  for  herself,  her  husband,  and  their  four 
children.  I  was  too  young  and  childish  to  know 
how  to  provide  properly  for  myself,  and  often 
found  I  was  obliged  to  live  on  bread  and  slices  of 
cold  pudding  at  the  end  of  the  week.  If  I  had 
not  been  a  very  innocent-minded,  good  little  boy, 
I  might  easily  have  fallen  into  bad  ways  at  this 
time.  But  God  took  care  of  me  and  kept  me  from 
harm.  I  would  not  even  tell  Peggotty  how  mis- 
erable I  was,  for  fear  of  distressing  her. 

The  troubles  of  the  Micawbers  increased  more 
and  more,  until  at  last  they  were  obliged  to  leave 
London.  I  was  very  sad  at  this,  for  I  had  been 
with  them  so  long  that  I  felt  they  were  my  friends, 
and  the  prospect  of  being  once  more  utterly  alone 


I70  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

and  having  to  find  a  lodging  with  strangers,  made 
me  so  unhappy  that  I  determined  to  endure  this 
sort  of  life  no  longer.  The  last  Sunday  the  Mi- 
cawbers  were  in  town  I  dined  with  them.  I  had 
bought  a  spotted  horse  for  their  little  boy  and  a 
doll  for  the  little  girl,  and  had  saved  up  a  shilling 
for  the  poor  servant-girl.  After  I  had  seen  them 
off  the  next  morning  by  the  coach,  I  wrote  to 
Peggotty  to  ask  her  if  she  knew  where  my  aunt, 
Miss  Betsy  Trotwood,  lived,  and  to  borrow  half- 
a-guinea;  for  I  had  resolved  to  run  away  from 
Murdstone  &  Grinby's,  and  go  to  this  aunt  and  tell 
her  my  story.  I  remembered  my  mother  telling 
me  of  her  visit  when  I  was  a  baby,  and  that  she 
fancied  Miss  Betsy  had  stroked  her  hair  gently, 
and  this  gave  me  courage  to  appeal  to  her.  Peg- 
gotty wrote,  enclosing  the  half -guinea,  and  saying 
she  only  knew  Miss  Trotwood  lived  near  Dover, 
but  whether  in  that  place  itself,  or  at  Folkestone, 
Sandgate,  or  Hythe,  she  could  not  tell.  Hearing 
that  all  these  places  were  close  together,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  start.  As  I  had  received  my 
week's  wages  in  advance,  I  waited  till  the  follow- 
ing Saturday,  thinking  it  would  not  be  honest  to 
go  before.  I  went  out  to  look  for  someone  to 
carry  my  box  to  the  coach  office,  and  unfortu- 
nately hired  a  wicked  young  man  who  not  only 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD      171 

ran  off  with  the  box,  but  robbed  me  of  my  half- 
guinea,  leaving  me  in  dire  distress.  In  despair, 
I  started  off  to  walk  to  Dover,  and  was  forced  to 
sell  my  waistcoat  to  buy  some  bread.  The  first 
night  I  found  my  way  to  my  old  school  at  Black- 
heath,  and  slept  on  a  haystack  close  by,  feeling 
some  comfort  in  the  thought  of  the  boys  being 
near.  I  knew  Steerf orth  had  left,  or  I  would  have 
tried  to  see  him. 

On  I  trudged  the  next  day  and  sold  my  jacket 
at  Chatham  to  a  dreadful  old  man,  who  kept  me 
waiting  all  day  for  the  money,  which  was  only 
one  shilling  and  fourpence.  I  was  afraid  to  buy 
anything  but  bread  or  to  spend  any  money  on  a 
bed  or  a  shelter  for  the  night,  and  was  terribly 
frightened  by  some  rough  tramps,  who  threw 
stones  at  me  when  I  did  not  answer  to  their  calls. 
After  six  days,  I  arrived  at  Dover,  ragged,  dusty, 
and  half -dead  with  hunger  and  fatigue.  But 
here,  at  first,  I  could  get  no  tidings  of  my  aunt, 
and,  in  despair,  was  going  to  try  some  of  the  other 
places  Peggotty  had  mentioned,  when  the  driver 
of  a  fly  dropped  his  horsecloth,  and  as  I  was 
handing  it  up  to  him,  I  saw  something  kind  in  the 
man's  face  that  encouraged  me  to  ask  once  more 
if  he  knew  where  Miss  Trot  wood  lived. 

The  man  directed  me  towards  some  houses  on 


172  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

the  heights,  and  thither  I  toiled.  Going  into  a 
Httle  shop,  I  by  chance  met  with  Miss  Trotwood's 
maid,  who  showed  me  the  house,  and  went  in 
leaving  me  standing  at  the  gate,  a  forlorn  little 
creature,  without  a  jacket  or  waistcoat,  my  white 
hat  crushed  out  of  shape,  my  shoes  worn  out,  my 
shirt  and  trousers  torn  and  stained,  my  pretty 
curly  hair  tangled,  my  face  and  hands  sunburnt 
and  covered  with  dust.  Lifting  my  eyes  to  one  of 
the  windows  above,  I  saw  a  pleasant -faced  gentle- 
man with  gray  hair,  who  nodded  at  me  several 
times,  then  shook  his  head  and  went  away.  I 
was  just  turning  away  to  think  what  I  should  do, 
when  a  tall,  erect  elderly  lady,  with  a  gardening 
apron  on  and  a  knife  in  her  hand,  came  out  of  the 
house,  and  began  to  dig  up  a  root  in  the  garden. 

*'Go  away,"  she  said.  "Go  away.  No  boys 
here." 

But  I  felt  desperate.  Going  in  softly,  I  stood 
beside  her,  and  touched  her  with  my  finger,  and 
said  timidly,  **If  you  please,  ma'am — "  and  when 
she  looked  up,  I  went  on — 

* 'Please,  aunt,  I  am  your  nephew." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  exclaimed  in  astonishment, 
and  sat  fiat  down  on  the  path,  staring  at  me, 
while  I  went  on — 

"I  am  David  Copperfield  of  Blunderstone,  in 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD 


173 


Suffolk,  where  you  came  the  night  I  was  born, 
and  saw  my  dear  mamma.  I  have  been  very 
unhappy  since  she  died.  I  have  been  neglected 
and  taught  nothing,  and  thrown  upon  myself, 
and  put  to  work  not  fit  for  me.  It  made  me  run 
away  to  you.  I  was  robbed  at  first  starting  out 
and  have  walked  all  the  way,  and  have  never  slept 
in  a  bed  since  I  began  the  journey."  Here  I 
broke  into  a  passion  of  crying,  and  my  aunt 
jumped  up  and  took  me  into  the  house,  where  she 
opened  a  cupboard  and  took  out  some  bottles, 
pouring  some  of  the  contents  of  each  into  my 
mouth,  not  noticing  in  her  agitation  what  they 
were,  for  I  fancied  I  tasted  anise-seed  water, 
anchovy  sauce,  and  salad  dressing!  Then  she 
put  me  on  the  sofa  and  sent  the  servant  to  ask 
"Mr.  Dick"  to  come  down.  The  gentleman  whom 
I  had  seen  at  the  window  came  in  and  was  told 
by  Miss  Trotwood  who  the  ragged  little  object  on 
the  sofa  was,  and  she  finished  by  saying — • 

"Now  here  you  see  young  David  Copperfield, 
and  the  question  is  what  shall  I  do  with  him?" 

"Do  with  him?"  answered  Mr.  Dick.  Then, 
after  some  consideration,  and  looking  at  me,  he 
said,  "Well,  if  I  was  you,  I  should  wash  him!" 

Miss  Trotwood  was  quite  pleased  at  this,  and 
a  warm  bath  was  got  ready  at  once,  after  which 


174  DlCKBNS'  CHILDREN 

I  was  dressed  in  a  srurt  and  trousers  belonging 
to  Mr.  Dick  (for  Janet  had  burnt  my  rags),  rolled 
up  in  several  shawls,  and  put  on  the  sofa  till 
dinner-time,  where  I  slept,  and  woke  with  the 
impression  that  my  aunt  had  come  and  put  my 
hair  off  my  face,  and  murmured,  'Tretty  fellow, 
poor  fellow." 

After  dinner  I  had  to  tell  my  stoiy  all  over  again 
to  my  aunt  and  Mr.  Dick.  Miss  Trotwood  again 
asked  Mr.  Dick's  advice,  and  was  delighted  when 
that  gentleman  suggested  I  should  be  put  to  bed. 
I  knelt  down  to  say  my  prayers  that  night  in  a 
pleasant  room  facing  the  sea,  and  as  I  lay  in  the 
clean,  snow-white  bed,  I  felt  so  grateful  and 
comforted  that  I  prayed  earnestly  I  might  never 
be  homeless  again,  and  might  never  forget  the 
homeless. 

The  next  morning  my  aunt  told  me  she  had 
written  to  Mr.  Murdstone.  I  was  alarmed  to 
think  that  my  step -father  knew  where  I  was,  and 
exclaimed — 

**0h,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  if  I  have  to 
go  back  to  Mr.  Murdstone !" 

But  my  aunt  said  nothing  of  her  intentions,  and 
I  was  uncertain  what  w^as  to  become  of  me.  I 
hoped  she  might  befriend  me. 

At  last  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  arrived.     To 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD      175 

Miss  Betsy's  great  indignation,  Miss  Murdstone 
rode  a  donkey  across  the  green  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  stopped  at  the  gate.  Nothing  made 
Miss  Trotwood  so  angry  as  to  see  donkeys  on  that 
green,  and  I  had  already  seen  several  battles 
between  my  aunt  or  Janet  and  the  donkey  boys. 

After  driving  away  the  donkey  and  the  boy 
who  had  dared  to  bring  it  there.  Miss  Trotwood 
received  her  visitors.  She  kept  me  near  her, 
fenced  in  with  a  chair. 

Mr.  Alurdstone  told  Miss  Betsy  that  I  was  a 
very  bad,  stubborn,  violent-tempered  boy,  whom 
he  had  tried  to  improve,  but  could  not  succeed; 
that  he  had  put  me  in  a  respectable  business  from 
which  I  had  run  away.  If  Miss  Trotwood  chose 
to  protect  and  encourage  me  now,  she  must  do  it 
always,  for  he  had  come  to  fetch  me  away  from 
there  and  then,  and  if  I  was  ready  to  come,  and 
Miss  Trotwood  did  not  wish  to  give  me  up  to  be 
dealt  with  exactly  as  Mr.  Murdstone  liked,  he 
would  cast  me  off  for  always,  and  have  no  more 
to  do  with  me. 

"Are  you  ready  to  go,  David?"  asked  my  aunt. 

But  I  answered  no,  and  begged  and  prayed 
her  for  my  father's  sake  to  befriend  and  protect 
me,  for  neither  Mr.  nor  Miss  Murdstone  had  ever 
liked  me  or  been  kind  to  me  and  had  made  my 


176  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

mamma,  who  always  loved  me  dearly,  very  un- 
happy about  me,  and  I  had  been  very  miserable. 

''Mr.  Dick,"  said  Miss  Trotwood,  "what  shall 
I  do  with  this  child?" 

Mr.  Dick  considered.  ''Have  him  measured 
for  a  suit  of  clothes  directly." 

"Mr.  Dick,"  said  Miss  Trotwood,  "your  com- 
mon sense  is  invaluable." 

Then  she  pulled  me  towards  her,  and  said  to 
Mr.  Murdstone,  "You  can  go  when  you  like.  Til 
take  my  chance  with  the  boy.  If  he's  all  you  say 
he  is  I  can  at  least  do  as  much  for  him  as  you  have 
done.     But  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

Then  she  told  Mr.  Murdstone  what  she  thought 
of  the  way  he  had  treated  me  and  my  mother, 
which  did  not  make  that  gentleman  feel  very 
comfortable,  and  finished  by  turning  to  Miss 
Murdstone  and  saying — 

"Good-day  to  you,  too,  ma'am,  and  if  I  ever 
see  you  ride  a  donkey  across  my  green  again,  as 
sure  as  you  have  a  head  upon  your  shoulders, 
I'll  knock  your  bonnet  off  and  tread  upon  it!" 

This  startled  Miss  Murdstone  so  much  that  she 
went  off  quite  quietly  with  her  brother,  while  I, 
overjoyed,  threw  my  arms  round  my  aunt's  neck, 
and  kissed  and  thanked  her  with  great  heartiness. 

Some  clothes  were  bought  for  me  that  same  day 


LITTLE  DAVID  COPPERFIELD       177 

and  marked  "Trotwood  Copperfield,"  for  my 
aunt  wished  to  call  me  by  her  name. 

Now  I  felt  my  troubles  were  over,  and  I  began 
quite  a  new  life,  well  cared  for  and  kindly  treated. 
I  was  sent  to  a  very  nice  school  in  Canterbury, 
where  my  aunt  left  me  with  these  words,  which  I 
never  forgot : 

*'Trot,  be  a  credit  to  yourself,  to  me,  and  Mr. 
Dick,  and  heaven  be  with  you.  Never  be  mean 
in  anything,  never  be  false,  never  be  cruel. 
Avoid  these  three  vices.  Trot,  and  I  shall  always 
be  hopeful  of  you?" 

I  did  my  best  to  show  my  gratitude  to  my  dear 
aunt  by  studying  hard,  and  trying  to  be  all  she 
could  wish. 

When  you  are  older  you  can  read  how  Little 
David  Copperfield  grew  up  to  be  a  good,  clever 
man,  and  met  again  all  his  old  friends,  and  made 
many  new  ones. 

Also,  what  became  of  Steerforth,  Traddles,  the 
Peggottys,  little  Em'ly,  and  the  Micawbers. 


VIII. 
JENNY  WREN. 

WALKING  into  the  city  one  holiday,  a 
great  many  years  ago,  a  gentleman  ran 
up  the  steps  of  a  tall  house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  St.  Mary  Axe.  The  lower  windows 
were  those  of  a  counting-house  but  the  blinds,  like 
those  of  the  entire  front  of  the  house,  were  drawn 
down. 

The  gentleman  knocked  and  rang  several  times 
before  any  one  came,  but  at  last  an  old  man 
opened  the  door.  ''What  were  you  up  to  that 
you  did  not  hear  me?"  said  Mr.  Fledgeby 
irritably. 

"I  was  taking  the  air  at  the  top  of  the  house, 
sir,"  said  the  old  man  meekly,  "it  being  a  holiday. 
What  might  you  please  to  want,  sir?" 

"Humph!  Holiday  indeed,"  grumbled  his 
master,  who  was  a  toy  merchant  amongst  other 
things.  He  then  seated  himself  in  the  counting- 
house  and  gave  the  old  man — a  Jew  and  Riah  by 
name — directions  about  the  dressing  of  some 
dolls  about  which  he  had  come  to  speak,  and,  as 
he  rose  to  go,  exclaimed — 

(178) 


''i-m^mmmimm^^mi. 


'Seated  on  the  Crystal  Carpet  Were  Two  Girls." 

Page  179 


JENNY  WREN  179 

''By-the-by,  how  do  you  take  the  air?  Do  you 
fctick  your  head  out  of  a  chimney-pot?" 

"No,  sir,  I  have  made  a  little  garden  on  the 
leads." 

"Let's  look  it  at,"  said  Mr.  Fledgeby. 

"Sir,  I  have  company  there,"  returned  Riah 
hesitating,  "but  will  you  please  come  up  and  see 
them?" 

Mr.  Fledgeby  nodded,  and,  passing  his  master 
with  a  bow,  the  old  man  led  the  way  up  flight 
after  flight  of  stairs,  till  they  arrived  at  the  house- 
top. Seated  on  a  carpet,  and  leaning  against  a 
chimney-stack,  were  two  girls  bending  over  books. 
Some  humble  creepers  were  trained  round  the 
chimney-pots,  and  evergreens  were  placed  round 
the  roof,  and  a  few  more  books,  a  basket  of  gaily 
colored  scraps,  and  bits  of  tinsel,  and  another  of 
common  print  stuff  lay  near.  One  of  the  girls 
rose  on  seeing  that  Riah  had  brought  a  visitor, 
but  the  other  remarked,  "I'm  the  person  of  the 
house  down-stairs,  but  I  can't  get  up,  whoever 
you  are,  because  my  back  is  bad  and  my  legs  are 
queer." 

"This  is  my  master,"  said  Riah,  speaking  to  the 
two  girls,  "and  this,"  he  added,  turning  to  Mr. 
Fledgeby,  "is  Miss  Jenny  Wren;  she  lives  in  this 
house,  and  is  a  clever  little  dressmaker  for  little 


I8.0  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

people.  Her  friend  Lizzie/'  continued  Riah, 
introducing  the  second  girl.  "They  are  good 
girls,  both,  and  as  busy  as  they  are  good;  in 
spare  moments  they  come  up  here  and  take  to 
book  learning." 

"We  are  glad  to  come  up  here  for  rest,  sir," 
said  Lizzie,  with  a  grateful  look  at  the  old  Jew. 
"No  one  can  tell  the  rest  what  this  place  is  to  us." 

"Humph!"  said  Mr.  Fledgeby,  looking  round, 
"Humph!"  He  was  so  much  surprised  that 
apparently  he  couldn't  get  beyond  that  word,  and 
as  he  went  down  again  the  old  chimney-pots  in 
their  black  cowls  seemed  to  turn  round  and  look 
after  him  as  if  they  were  saying  "Humph"  too. 

Lizzie,  the  elder  of  these  two  girls,  was  strong 
and  handsome,  but  little  Jenny  Wren,  whom  she 
so  loved  and  protected,  was  small  and  deformed, 
though  she  had  a  beautiful  little  face,  and  the 
longest  and  loveliest  golden  hair  in  the  world, 
which  fell  about  her  like  a  cloak  of  shining  curls, 
as  though  to  hide  the  poor  little  mis-shapen 
figure. 

The  Jew  Riah,  as  well  as  Lizzie,  was  always 
kind  and  gentle  to  Jenny  Wren,  who  called  him  her 
godfather.  She  had  a  father,  who  shared  her 
poor  little  rooms,  whom  she  called  her  child ;  for 
he  was  a  bad,  drunken,  worthless  old  man,  and 


JENNY  WREN  i8i 

the  poor  girl  had  to  care  for  him,  and  earn  money 
to  keep  them  both.  She  suffered  a  great  deal, 
for  the  poor  little  bent  back  always  ached  sadly, 
and  was  often  weary  from  constant  work  but  it 
was  only  on  rare  occasions,  when  alone  or  with 
her  friend  Lizzie,  who  often  brought  her  work  and 
sat  in  Jenny's  room,  that  the  brave  child  ever 
complained  of  her  hard  lot.  Sometimes  the  two 
girls  Jenny  helping  herself  along  with  a  crutch, 
w^ould  go  and  walk  about  the  fashionable  streets, 
in  order  to  note  how  the  grand  folks  were  dressed. 
As  they  walked  along,  jenny  would  tell  her  friend 
of  the  fancies  she  had  when  sitting  alone  at  her 
work.  ' ' I  imagine  birds  till  I  can  hear  them  sing, ' ' 
she  said  one  day,  "and  fiow^ers  till  I  can  smell 
them.  And  oh!  the  beautiful  children  that  come 
to  me  in  the  early  mornings!  They  are  quite 
different  to  other  children,  not  like  me,  never  cold, 
or  anxious,  or  tired,  or  hungry,  never  any  pain; 
they  come  in  numbers,  in  long  bright  slanting 
rows,  all  dressed  in  white,  and  with  shiny  heads. 
'Who  is  this  in  pain?'  they  say,  and  they  sweep 
around  and  about  me,  take  me  up  in  their  arms, 
and  I  feel  so  light,  and  all  the  pain  goes.  I  know 
when  they  are  coming  a  long  way  off,  by  hearing 
them  say,  'Who  is  this  in  pain?'  and  I  answer, 
'Oh  my  blessed  children,  it's  poor  me!  have  pity 


i82  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

on  me,  and  take  me  up  and  then  the  pain  will 

go" 

Lizzie  sat  stroking  and  brushing  the  beautiful 

hair,  whilst  the  tired  little  dressmaker  leant 
against  her  when  they  were  at  home  again,  and  as 
she  kissed  her  good-night,  a  miserable  old  man 
stumbled  into  the  room.  ''How's  my  Jenny 
Wren,  best  of  children?"  he  mumbled,  as  he 
shuffled  unsteadily  towards  her,  but  Jenny  pointed 
her  small  finger  towards  him,  exclaiming — "Go 
along  with  you,  you  bad,  wicked  old  child,  you 
troublesome,  wicked  old  thing,  I  know  where  you 
have  been,  I  know  your  tricks  and  your  manners." 
The  wretched  man  began  to  whimper  like  a 
scolded  child.  "Slave,  slave,  slave,  from  morn- 
ing to  night,"  went  on  Jenny,  still  shaking  her 
finger  at  him,  "and  all  for  this ;  ain't  you  ashamed 
of  yourself,  you  disgraceful  boy?" 

"Yes;  my  dear,  yes,"  stammered  the  tipsy  old 
father,  tumbling  into  a  comer.  Thus  was  the 
poor  little  dolls'  dressmaker  dragged  down  day 
by  day  by  the  very  hands  that  should  have  cared 
for  and  held  her  up;  poor,  poor  little  dolls'  dress- 
maker! One  day  when  Jenny  was  on  her  way 
home  with  Riah,  who  had  accompanied  her  on 
one  of  her  walks  to  the  West  End,  they  came  on  a 
small  crowd  of  people.     A  tipsy  man  had  been 


JENNY  WREN  183 

knocked  down  and  badly  hurt.  "Let  us  see  what 
it  is!"  said  Jenny,  coming  swiftly  forward  on  her 
crutches.  The  next  moment  she  exclaimed — 
"Oh,  gentlemen — gentlemen,  he  is  my  child,  he 
belongs  to  me,  my  poor,  bad  old  child!" 

"Your  child — belongs  to  you,"  repeated  the 
man  who  was  about  to  lift  the  helpless  figure  on 
to  a  stretcher,  which  had  been  brought  for  the 
purpose.  "Aye,  it's  old  Dolls — tipsy  old  Dolls," 
cried  someone  in  the  crowd,  for  it  was  by  this 
name  that  they  knew  the  old  man. 

"He's  her  father,  sir,"  said  Riah  in  a  low  tone 
to  the  doctor  who  was  now  bending  over  the 
stretcher. 

"So  much  the  worse,"  answered  the  doctor, 
"for  the  man  is  dead." 

Yes,  "Mr.  Dolls"  was  dead,  and  many  were  the 
dresses  which  the  weary  fingers  of  the  sorrowful 
little  worker  must  make  in  order  to  pay  for  his 
humble  funeral  and  buy  a  black  frock  for  herself. 
Riah  sat  by  her  in  her  poor  room,  saying  a  word 
of  comfort  now  and  then,  and  Lizzie  came  and 
went,  and  did  all  manner  of  little  things  to  help 
her;  but  often  the  tears  rolled  down  on  to  her 
work.  "My  poor  child,"  she  said  to  Riah,  "my 
poor  old  child,  and  to  think  I  scolded  him  so." 

"You  were  always  a  good,  brave,  patient  girl," 


1 84  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

returned  Riah,  smiling  a  little  over  her  quaint 
fancy  about  her  child,  "always  good  and  patient, 
however  tired." 

And  so  the  poor  little  ''person  of  the  house" 
was  left  alone  but  for  the  faithful  affection  of  the 
kind  Jew  and  her  friend  Lizzie.  Her  room  grew 
pretty  and  comfortable,  for  she  was  in  great 
request  in  her  "profession,"  as  she  called  it,  and 
there  were  now  no  one  to  spend  and  waste  her 
earnings.  But  nothing  could  make  her  life 
otherwise  than  a  suffering  one  till  the  happy 
morning  when  her  child-angels  visited  her  for  the 
last  time  and  carried  her  away  to  the  land  where 
all  such  pain  as  hers  is  healed  for  evermore. 


'Keep  Still,  You  Little  Imp,  or  I'll  Cut  Your  Throat." 

Page  185 


IX. 
PIP'S  ADVENTURE 

ALL  that  little  Philip  Pirrip,  usually  called 
Pip,  knew  about  his  father  and  mother, 
and  his  five  little  brothers,  was  from  see- 
ing their  tombstones  in  the  churchyard.  He  was 
cared  for  by  his  sister,  who  was  twenty  years  older 
than  himself.  She  had  married  a  blacksmith, 
named  Joe  Gargery,  a  kind,  good  man,  while  she, 
unfortunately,  was  a  hard,  stern  woman,  and 
treated  her  little  brother  and  her  amiable  husband 
with  great  harshness.  They  lived  in  a  marshy 
part  of  the  country,  about  twenty  miles  from  the 
sea. 

One  cold,  raw  day  towards  evening,  when  Pip 
was  about  six  years  old,  he  had  wandered  into  the 
churchyard,  and  was  trying  to  make  out  what  he 
could  of  the  inscriptions  on  his  family  tombstones. 
The  darkness  was  coming  on,  and  feeling  very 
lonely  and  frightened,  he  began  to  cry. 

''Hold  your  noise!"  cried  a  terrible  voice;  and 
a  man  started  up  from  among  the  graves  close  to 
him.  "Keep  still,  you  little  imp,  or  I'll  cut  your 
throat!" 

(185) 


i86  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

He  was  a  dreadful  looking  man,  dressed  in 
coarse  gray  cloth,  with  a  great  iron  on  his  leg. 
Wet,  muddy,  and  miserable,  he  limped  and 
shivered,  and  glared  and  growled;  his  teeth 
chattered  in  his  head,  as  he  seized  Pip,  by  the  chin. 

*'0h!  don't  cut  my  throat,  sir,"  cried  Pip,  in 
terror.     'Tray  don't  do  it,  sir." 

"Tell  us  your  name!" said  the  man.    **Quick!" 

"Pip,  sir." 

"Once  more,"  said  the  man,  staring  at  him, 
"Give  it  mouth." 

"Pip.     Pip,  sir." 

"Show  us  where  you  live,"  said  the  man. 
"Point  out  the  place." 

Pip  showed  him  the  village,  about  a  mile  oi 
more  from  the  church. 

The  man  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  him  upside  down  and  emptied  his  pockets. 
He  found  nothing  in  them  but  a  piece  of  bread, 
which  he  ate  ravenously. 

"You  young  dog,"  said  the  man,  licking  his 
lips,  "what  fat  cheeks  you  ha'  got  .  .  . 
Dam  me  if  I  couldn't  eat  'em,  and  if  I  han't  half 
a  mind  to!" 

Pip  said  earnestly  that  he  hoped  he  would  not. 

"Now  lookee  here,"  said  the  man.  "Where's 
your  mother?" 


PIP'S  ADVENTURE  187 

"There  sir,"  said  Pip. 

At  this  the  man  started  and  seemed  about  to 
run  away,  but  stopped  and  looked  over  his  shoul- 
der. 

'There,  sir,"  explained  Pip,  showing  him  the 
tombstone. 

"Oh,  and  is  that  your  father  along  of  your 
mother?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Pip. 

*'Ha!"  muttered  the  man,  **then  who  d'y^  ^ive 
with — supposin'  you're  kindly  let  to  live,  which  I 
han't  made  up  my  mind  about?" 

"My  sister,  sir,  Mrs.  Joe  Gargery,  wife  of  Joe 
Gargery,  the  blacksmith,  sir." 

"Blacksmith,  eh?"  said  the  man,  and  looked 
down  at  his  leg.  Then  he  seized  the  trembling 
little  boy  by  both  arms,  and  glaring  down  at  him, 
he  said — 

"Now  lookee  here,  the  question  being  whether 
you're  to  be  let  to  live.     You  know  what  a  file  is?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  know  what  wittles  is.  Something 
to  eat?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  get  me  a  file,  and  you  get  me  wittles — 
you  bring  'em  both  to  me."  All  this  time  he  was 
tilting  poor  Pip  backwards  till  he  was  so  dread- 


i88  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

fully  frightened  and  giddy  that  he  clung  to  the. 
man  with  both  hands. 

*'You  bring  me,  to-morrow  morning  early,  that 
file  and  them  wittles.  You  do  it,  and  you  never 
dare  to  say  a  word  or  dare  to  make  a  sign  con- 
cerning your  having  seen  such  a  person  as  me,  or 
any  person  sumever,  and  you  shall  be  let  to  live." 
Then  he  threatened  all  sorts  of  dreadful  and  terri- 
ble things  to  poor  Pip  if  he  failed  to  do  all  he  had 
commanded,  and  made  him  solemnly  promise  to 
bring  him  what  he  wanted,  and  to  keep  the  secret. 
Then  he  let  him  go,  saying,  **You  remember  what 
you've  undertook,  and  you  get  home." 

"Goo — good-night,  sir,"  faltered  Pip. 

*'Much  of  that!"  said  he,  glancing  over  the  cold 
wet  flat.     "I  wish  I  was  a  frog  or  a  eel!" 

Pip  ran  home  without  stopping.  Joe  was  sit- 
ting in  the  chimney-comer,  and  told  him  Mrs.  Joe 
had  been  out  to  look  for  him,  and  taken  Tickler 
with  her.  Tickler  was  a  cane,  and  Pip  was  rather 
downhearted  by  this  piece  of  news. 

Mrs.  Joe  came  in  almost  directly,  and,  after 
having  given  Pip  a  taste  of  Tickler,  she  sat  down  to 
prepare  the  tea,  and,  cutting  a  huge  slice  of  bread 
and  butter,  she  gave  half  of  it  to  Joe  and  half  to 
Pip.  Pip  managed,  after  some  time,  to  slip  his 
down  the  leg  of  his  trousers,  and  Joe,  thinking  he 


PIP'S  ADVENTURE  189 

had  swallowed  it,  was  dreadfully  alarmed  and 
begged  him  not  to  bolt  his  food  like  that.  "Pip, 
old  chap,  you'll  do  yourself  a  mischief — it'll  stick 
somewhere,  you  can't  have  chewed  it,  Pip.  You 
know,  Pip,  you  and  me  is  always  friends  and  I'd 
be  the  last  one  to  tell  upon  you  any  time,  but 
such  a — such  a  most  uncommon  bolt  as  that.** 

"Been  bolting  his  food,  has  he?"  cried  Mrs.  Joe. 

"You  know,  old  chap,"  said  Joe,  "I  bolted 
myself  when  I  was  your  age — frequent — and  as  a 
boy  I've  been  among  a  many  bolters;  but  I 
never  see  your  bolting  equal  yet,  Pip,  and  it's  a 
mercy  you  ain't  bolted  dead." 

Mrs.  Joe  made  a  dive  at  Pip,  fished  him  up  by 
the  hair,  saying,  "You  come  along  and  be  dosed." 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  and  Pip  had  to  stir  the 
pudding  from  seven  to  eight,  and  found  the  bread 
and  butter  dreadfully  in  his  way.  At  last  he 
slipped  out  and  put  it  away  in  his  little  bedroom. 

Poor  Pip  passed  a  wretched  night,  thinking  of 
the  dreadful  promise  he  had  made,  and  as  soon  as 
it  was  beginning  to  get  light  outside  he  got  up 
and  crept  down-stairs,  fancying  that  every  board 
creaked  out  "Stop  thief!"  and  "Get  up,  Mrs.  Joe!" 

As  quickly  as  he  could,  he  took  some  bread, 
some  rind  of  cheese,  about  half  a  jar  of  mince- 
meat, which  he  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief,  with 


190  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

the  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  some  brandy  from 
a  stone  bottle,  a  meat-bone  with  very  little  on  it, 
and  a  pork-pipe,  which  he  found  on  an  upper  shelf. 
Then  he  got  a  file  from  among  Joe's  tools,  and  ran 
for  the  marshes. 

It  was  a  very  misty  morning,  and  Pip  imagined 
that  all  the  cattle  stared  at  him,  as  if  to  say, 
"Halloa,  young  thief!"  and  one  black  ox  with  a 
white  cravat  on,  that  made  Pip  think  of  a  clergy- 
man, looked  so  accusingly  at  him,  that  Pip  blub- 
bered out,  "I  couldn't  help  it,  sir!  It  wasn't  for 
myself  I  took  it." 

Upon  which  the  ox  put  down  his  head,  blew  a 
cloud  of  smoke  out  of  his  nose,  and  vanished  with 
a  kick-up  of  his  hind  legs  and  a  flourish  of  his 
tail. 

Pip  was  soon  at  the  place  of  meeting  after  that, 
and  there  was  the  man — hugging  himself  and  limp- 
ing to  and  fro,  as  if  he  had  never  all  night  left 
off  hugging  and  limping.  He  was  awfully  cold, 
to  be  sure.  Pip  half  expected  to  see  him  drop 
down  before  his  face  and  die  of  cold.  His  eyes 
looked  so  awfully  hungry,  too,  that  when  Pip 
handed  him  the  file  it  occurred  to  him  he  would 
have  tried  to  eat  it,  if  he  had  not  seen  the  bundle. 
He  did  not  turn  Pip  upside  down,  this  time,  to  get 
at  what  he  had,  but  left  him  right  side  upward 


PIP'S  x^DVENTURE  191 

while  he  opened  the  bundle  and  emptied  his 
pockets. 

"What's  in  the  bottle,  boy?"  said  he. 

"Brandy,"  said  Pip. 

He  was  already  handing  mince-pie  down  his 
throat  in  the  most  curious  manner,  more  like  a 
man  who  was  putting  it  away  somewhere  in  a 
violent  hurry  than  a  man  who  was  eating  it — but 
he  left  off  to  take  some  of  the  liquor,  shivering 
all  the  while  so  violently  that  it  was  quite  as 
much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  the  neck  of  the  bottle 
between  his  teeth. 

"I  think  you  have  got  the  chills,"  said  Pip. 

"I'm  much  of  your  opinion,  boy,"  said  he. 

"It's  bad  about  here.  You've  been  lying  out 
on  the  marshes,  and  they're  dreadful  for  the  chills. 
Rheumatic,  too." 

"I'll  eat  my  breakfast  before  they're  the  death 
of  me,"  said  he.  "I'd  do  that,  if  I  was  going  to 
be  strung  up  to  that  there  gallows  as  there  is  over 
there  directly  arterward.  I'll  beat  the  shivers 
so  far,  I'll  bet  you  a  guinea." 

He  was  gobbling  mince-meat,  meat-bone,  bread, 
cheese,  and  pork-pie  all  at  once,  staring  distrust- 
fully while  he  did  so  at  the  mist  all  round,  and 
often  stopping — even  stopping  his  jaws — ^to  listen. 
Some  real  or  fancied  sound,  some  clink  upon  the 


192  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

river  or  breathing  of  beasts  upon  the  marsh,  now 
gave  him  a  start,  and  he  said,  suddenly: 

"You're  not  a  false  imp?  You  brought  no  one 
with  you?" 

"No,  sir!    No!" 

"Nor  told  nobody  to  follow  you?" 

"No!" 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  believe  you.  You'd  be  but 
a  fierce  young  hound  indeed,  if  at  your  time  of 
life  you  should  help  to  hunt  a  wretched  warmint, 
hunted  as  near  death  and  dunghill  as  this  poor 
wretched  warmint  is!" 

Something  clicked  in  his  throat,  as  if  he  had 
works  in  him  like  a  clock,  and  was  going  to  strike. 
And  he  smeared  his  ragged,  rough  sleeve  over  his 
eyes. 

Pitying  his  desolation,  and  watching  him  as  he 
gradually  settled  down  upon  the  pie,  Pip  made 
bold  to  say,  "I  am  glad  you  enjoy  it." 

"Did  you  speak?" 

"I  said  I  was  glad  you  enjoyed  it." 

"Thankee,  my  boy—.     I  do." 

Pip  had  often  watched  a  large  dog  eating  his 
food;  and  he  now  noticed  a  decided  similarity 
between  the  dog's  way  of  eating  and  the  man's. 
The  man  took  strong,  sharp,  sudden  bites,  just  like 
the  dog.     He  swallowed,  or  rather  snapped  up, 


PIP'S  ADVENTURE  193 

every  mouthful  too  soon  and  too  fast;  and  he 
looked  sideways  here  and  there  while  he  ate,  as  if 
he  thought  there  was  danger  of  somebody's 
coming  to  take  the  pie  away.  He  was  altogether 
too  unsettled  in  his  mind  over  it  to  enjoy  it  com- 
fortably, Pip  thought,  or  to  have  anybody  to 
dine  with  him,  without  making  a  chop  with  his 
jaws  at  the  visitor.  In  all  of  which  particulars 
he  was  very  like  the  dog. 

Pip  watched  him  trying  to  file  the  iron  off  his 
leg,  and  then  being  afraid  of  stopping  longer  away 
from  home,  he  ran  off. 

Pip  passed  a  wretched  morning,  expecting  every 
moment  that  the  disappearance  of  the  pie  would 
be  found  out.  But  Mrs.  Joe  was  too  much  taken 
up  with  preparing  the  dinner,  for  they  were  ex- 
pecting visitors,  and  were  to  have  a  superb  dinner, 
consisting  of  a  leg  of  pickled  pork  and  greens,  and 
a  pair  of  roast  stuffed  fowls,  a  mince-pie,  and  a 
pudding. 

Just  at  the  end  of  the  dinner  Pip  thought  his 
time  had  come  to  be  found  out,  for  his  sister  said 
graciously  to  her  guests — 

''You  must  taste  a  most  delightful  and  delicious 
present  I  have  had.     It's  a  pie,  a  savory  pork-pie. " 

Pip  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  ran  for  the  door, 
and  there  ran  head   foremost   into  a  party   of 


194  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

soldiers  with  their  muskets,  one  of  whom  held  out 
a  pair  of  handcuffs  to  him,  saying,  "Here  you  are, 
look  sharp,  come  on."  But  they  had  not  come 
for  him,  they  only  wanted  Joe  to  mend  the  hand- 
cuffs, for  they  were  on  the  search  for  two  convicts 
who  had  escaped  and  were  somewhere  hid  in  the 
marshes.  This  turned  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Joe 
from  the  disappearance  of  the  pie,  without  which 
she  had  come  back,  in  great  astonishment. 
When  the  handcuffs  were  mended  the  soldiers 
went  off,  accompanied  by  Joe  and  one  of  the  vis- 
itors, and  Joe  took  Pip  and  carried  him  on  his 
back. 

Pip  whispered,  "I  hope,  Joe,  we  shan't  find 
them,"  and  Joe  answered,  "Fd  give  a  shilling  if 
they  had  cut  and  run,  Pip." 

But  the  soldiers  soon  caught  them,  and  one  was 
the  wretched  man  who  had  talked  with  Pip ;  and 
once  when  he  looked  at  Pip,  the  child  shook  his 
head  to  try  and  let  him  know  he  had  said  nothing. 

But  the  convict,  without  looking  at  anyone, 
told  the  sergeant  he  wanted  to  say  something  to 
prevent  other  people  being  under  suspicion,  and 
said  he  had  taken  some  "wittles"  from  the  black- 
smith's. "It  was  some  broken  wittles,  that's 
what  it  was,  and  a  dram  of  liquor,  and  a 
pie." 


PIP'S  ADVENTURE  19S 

"Have  you  happened  to  miss  such  an  article 
as  a  pie,  blacksmith?"  inquired  the  sergeant. 

"My  wife  did,  at  the  very  moment  when  you 
came  in.     Don't  you  know,  Pip?" 

*'So,"  said  the  convict,  looking  at  Joe,  "you're 
the  blacksmith,  are  you?  Then,  I'm  sorry  to 
say,  I've  eat  your  pie." 

"God  knows  you're  welcome  to  it,"  said  Joe. 
"We  don't  know  what  you  have  done,  but  we 
wouldn't  have  you  starved  to  death  for  it,  poor 
miserable  fellow-creature.     Would  us,  Pip?" 

Then  the  boat  came,  and  the  convicts  were 
taken  back  to  their  prison,  and  Joe  carried  Pip 
home. 

Some  years  after,  some  mysterious  friend  sent 
money  for  Pip  to  be  educated  and  brought  up  as  a 
gentleman;  but  it  was  only  when  Pip  was  quite 
grown  up  that  he  discovered  this  mysterious 
friend  was  the  wretched  convict  who  had  frighten- 
ed him  so  dreadfully  that  cold,  dark  Christmas  eve. 
He  had  been  sent  to  a  far  away  land,  and  there  had 
grown  rich ;  but  he  never  forgot  the  little  boy  who 
had  been  kind  to  him. 


TODGERS\ 

THIS  is  the  story  of  a  visit  made  by  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  a  very  pompous  man,  and  his  two 
daughters  Miss  Mercy  and  Miss  Charity, 
to  the  boarding-house  kept  by  Mrs.  Todgers,  in 
London ;  and  a  call  while  there  on  Miss  Pinch,  a 
governess  or  young  lady  teaching  in  a  rich  family. 
Mr.  Pecksniff  with  his  two  beautiful  young 
daughters  looked  about  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  very  dingy  building, 
even  among  the  choice  collection  of  dingy  houses 
around,  on  the  front  of  which  was  a  little  oval 
board,  like  a  tea-tray,  with  this  inscription — "Com- 
mercial Boarding-house:  M.  Todgers." 

It  seemed  that  M.  Todgers  was  not  up  yet, 
for  Mr.  Pecksniff  knocked  twice  and  rang  three 
times  without  making  any  impression  on  an3rthing 
but  a  dog  over  the  way.  At  last  a  chain  and  some 
bolts  were  withdrawn  with  a  rusty  noise,  and  a 
small  boy  with  a  large  red  head,  and  no  nose  to 
speak  of,  and  a  very  dirty  boot  on  his  left  arm, 
appeared ;  who  (being  surprised)  rubbed  the  nose 

(196) 


TODGERS'  197 

just  mentioned  with  the  back  of  a  shoe-brush,  and 
said  nothing. 

♦'Still  abed,  my  man?"  asked  Mr.  Pecksniff. 
"Still  abed!"  replied  the  boy.  "I  wish  they 
was  still  abed.  They're  very  noisy  abed;  all 
calling  for  their  boots  at  once.  I  thought  you  was 
the  paper,  and  wondered  why  you  didn't  shove 
yourself  though  the  grating  as  usual.  What  do 
you  want?" 

Considering  his  years,  which  were  tender,  the 
youth  may  be  said  to  have  asked  this  question 
sternly,  and  in  something  of  a  defiant  manner. 
But  Mr.  Pecksniff,  without  taking  offense  at  his 
bearing,  put  a  card  in  his  hand,  and  bade  him  take 
that  up-stairs,  and  show  them  in  the  meanwhile 
into  a  room  where  there  was  a  fire. 

Surely  there  never  was,  in  any  other  borough, 
city,  or  hamlet,  in  the  world,  such  a  singular 
sort' of  a  place  as  Todgers'.  And  surely  London, 
to  judge  from  that  part  of  it  which  hemmed 
Todgers'  round,  and  hustled  it,  and  crushed  it, 
and  stuck  its  brick-and-mortar  elbows  into  it,  and 
kept  the  air  from  it,  and  stood  perpetually  between 
it  and  the  light,  was  worthy  of  Todgers'. 

There  were  more  trucks  near  Todgers'  than  you 
would  suppose  a  whole  city  could  ever  need ;  not 
trucks   at   work  but   a  vagabond   race,   forever 


iqS  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

lounging  in  the  narrow  lanes  before  their  masters' 
doors  and  stopping  up  the  pass;  so  that  when 
a  stray  hackney-coach  or  lumbering  wagon  came 
that  way,  they  were  the  cause  of  such  an  uproar 
as  enlivened  the  whole  neighborhood,  and  made 
the  very  bells  in  the  next  church-tower  ring  again. 
In  the  narrow  dark  streets  near  Todgers',  wine- 
merchants  and  wholesale  dealers  in  grocery-ware 
had  perfect  little  towns  of  their  own;  and,  deep 
among  the  very  foundations  of  these  buildings, 
the  ground  was  undermined  and  burrowed  out 
into  stables,  where  cart-horses,  troubled  by  rats, 
might  be  heard  on  a  quiet  Sunday,  rattling  their 
halters,  as  disturbed  spirits  in  tales  of  haunted 
houses  are  said  to  clank  their  chains. 

To  tell  of  half  the  queer  old  taverns  that  had  a 
drowsy  and  secret  existence  near  Todgers'  would 
fill  a  goodly  book ;  while  a  second  volume  no  less 
in  size  might  be  given  to  an  account  of  the  quaint 
old  guests  who  frequented  their  dimly-lighted 
parlors. 

The  top  of  the  house  was  worthy  of  notice. 
There  was  a  sort  of  terrace  on  the  roof,  with  posts 
and  fragments  of  rotten  lines,  once  intended  to 
dry  clothes  upon;  and  there  were  two  or  three 
tea-chests  out  there,  full  of  earth,  with  forgotten 
plants  in  them,  like  old  walking-sticks.     Whoever 


TODGERS'  199 

climbed  to  this  observatory  was  stunned  at  first 
from  having  knocked  his  head  against  the  Httle 
door  in  coming  out ;  and,  after  that,  was  for  the 
moment  choked  from  having  looked,  perforce, 
straight  down  the  kitchen  chimney ;  but  these  two 
stages  over,  there  were  things  to  gaze  at  from  the 
top  of  Todgers',  well  worth  your  seeing,  too.  For, 
first  and  foremost,  if  the  day  were  bright,  you 
observed  upon  the  house-tops,  stretching  far 
away,  a  long  dark  path — the  shadow  of  the  tall 
Monument  which  stands  in  memory  of  the  great 
fire  in  London  many  years  before:  and  turning 
round,  the  Monument  itself  was  close  beside  you, 
with  every  hair  erect  upon  his  golden  head,  as  if 
the  doings  of  the  city  frightened  him.  Then 
there  were  steeples,  towers,  belfries,  shining 
vanes  and  masts  of  ships,  a  very  forest.  Gables, 
house-tops,  garret-windows,  wilderness  upon  wil- 
derness. Smoke  and  noise  enough  for  all  the 
world  at  once. 

After  the  first  glance,  there  were  slight  features 
in  the  midst  of  this  crowd  of  objects,  which  sprung 
out  from  the  mass  without  any  reason,  as  it  were, 
and  took  hold  of  the  attention  whether  the  spec- 
tator would  or  no.  Thus,  the  revolving  chimney- 
pots on  one  great  stack  of  buildings  seemed  to  be 
turning  gravely  to  each  other  every  now  and  then, 


200  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

and  whispering  the  result  of  their  separate  obser- 
vation of  what  was  going  on  below.  Others,  of  a 
crooked-back  shape,  appeared  to  be  maliciously 
holding  themselves  askew,  that  they  might  shut 
the  prospect  out  and  baffle  Todgers'.  The  man 
who  was  mending  a  pen  at  an  upper  window  over 
the  way  became  of  vast  importance  in  the  scene, 
and  made  a  blank  in  it,  ridiculously  large  in  its 
size,  when  he  went  away.  The  fluttering  of  a 
piece  of  cloth  upon  the  dyer's  pole  had  far  more 
interest  for  the  moment  than  all  the  changing 
motion  of  the  crowd.  Yet  even  while  the  looker- 
on  felt  angry  with  himself  for  this,  and  wondered 
how  it  was  the  tumult  swelled  into  a  roar;  the 
hosts  of  objects  seemed  to  thicken  and  expand  a 
hundredfold;  and  after  gazing  round  him,  quite 
scared,  he  turned  into  Todgers'  again,  much  more 
rapidly  than  he  came  out ;  and  ten  to  one  he  told 
M.  Todgers  afterwards  that  if  he  hadn't  done  so, 
he  would  certainly  have  come  into  the  street  by 
the  shortest  cut :  that  is  to  say,  head-foremost. 

So  said  the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs,  when  they  came 
down  with  Mrs.  Todgers  from  the  roof  of  the  house ; 
leaving  the  youthful  porter  to  close  the  door  and 
follow  them  down-stairs :  who  being  of  a  playful 
temperament,  and  contemplating  with  a  delight 
peculiar  to  his  sex  and   time  of  life  any  chance 


TODGERS'  20I 

of  clashing  himself  into  small  fragments,  Hngered 
behind  to  walk  upon  the  wall  around  the  roof. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  their  stay  in  London, 
and  by  this  time  the  Misses  Pecksniff  and  Mrs. 
Todgers  were  becoming  very  friendly,  insomuch 
that  the  last-named  lady  had  already  told  the 
story  of  three  early  disappointments  in  love ;  and 
had  furthermore  given  her  young  friends  a  general 
account  of  the  life,  conduct,  and  character  of  Mr. 
Todgers:  who,  it  seemed,  had  cut  his  life  as  a 
husband  rather  short,  by  unlawfully  running 
away  from  his  happiness,  and  staying  for  a  time  in 
foreign  countries  as  a  bachelor. 

''Your  pa  was  once  a  little  particular  in  his 
attentions,  my  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Todgers,  ''but 
to  be  your  ma  was  too  much  happiness  denied  me. 
You'd  hardly  know  who  this  was  done  for,  perhaps  ?" 

She  called  their  attention  to  an  oval  miniature, 
like  a  little  blister,  which  was  tacked  up  over  the 
kettle-holder,  and  in  which  there  was  a  dreamy 
shadowing  forth  of  her  own  visage. 

"It's  a  speaking  likeness!"  cried  the  two  Misses 
Pecksniff. 

"It  was  considered  so  once,"  said  Mrs.  Todgers, 
warming  herself  in  a  gentlemanly  manner  at  the 
fire:  "but  I  hardly  thought  you  would  have 
known  it,  my  loves." 


202  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

They  would  have  known  it  anywhere.  If  they 
could  have  met  with  it  in  the  street  or  seen  it  in  a 
shop-window,  they  would  have  cried,  "Good 
gracious!    Mrs.  Todgers!" 

"Being  in  charge  of  a  boarding-house  like  this 
makes  sad  havoc  with  the  features,  my  dear  Misses 
Pecksniff,"  said  Mrs.  Todgers.  "The  gravy  alone 
is  enough  to  add  twenty  years  to  one's  age,  I  do 
assure  you." 

"Lor!"  cried  the  two  Misses  Pecksniff. 

"The  anxiety  of  that  one  thing,  my  dears," 
said  Mrs.  Todgers,  "keeps  the  mind  continually 
upon  the  stretch.  There  is  no  such  passion  in 
human  nature  as  the  passion  for  gravy  among 
business  men.  It's  nothing  to  say  a  joint  won't 
yield — a  whole  animal  wouldn't  yield — ^the  amount 
of  gravy  they  expect  each  day  at  dinner.  And 
what  I  have  undergone  in  consequence,"  cried 
Mrs.  Todgers,  raising  her  eyes  and  shaking  her 
head,  "no  one  would  believe!" 

"Just  like  Mr.  Pinch,  Mercy!"  said  Charity. 
"We  have  always  noticed  it  in  him,  you  remem- 
ber?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  giggled  Mercy,  "but  we  have 
never  given  it  him,  you  know." 

Mr.  Pecksniff  kept  what  was  called  a  school 
for  architects,  and  Tom  Pinch  was  one  of  his  students. 


TODGERS'  203 

**You,  my  dears,  having  to  deal  with  your  pa's 
pupils  who  can't  help  themselves,  are  able  to  take 
your  own  way,"  said  Mrs.  Todgers^  *'but  in  a 
boarding-house,  where  any  gentleman  may  say, 
any  Saturday  evening,  'Mrs.  Todgers,  this  day 
week  we  part,  in  consequence  of  the  cheese,' 
it  is  not  so  easy  to  preserve  a  pleasant  understand- 
ing. Your  pa  was  kind  enough,"  added  the  good 
lady,  "to  invite  me  to  take  a  ride  with  you  to-day; 
and  I  think  he  mentioned  that  you  were  going  to 
call  upon  Miss  Pinch.  Any  relation  to  the  gentle- 
man you  were  speaking  of  just  now,  Miss  Peck- 
sniff?" 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Mrs.  Todgers,"  interposed 
the  lively  Mercy,  "don't  call  him  a  gentleman. 
My  dear  Cherry,  Pinch  a  gentleman!  The 
idea!" 

"What  a  wicked  girl  you  are!"  cried  Mrs.  Tod- 
gers, embracing  her  with  great  affection.  "You 
are  quite  a  joker,  I  do  declare!  My  dear  Miss 
Pecksniff,  what  a  happiness  your  sister's  spirits 
must  be  to  your  pa  and  self !" 

"That  Pinch  is  the  most  hideous,  goggle-eyed 
creature,  Mrs.  Todgers,  in  existence,"  resumed 
Mercy:  "quite  an  ogre.  The  ugliest,  awkward - 
est,  frightfullest  being,  you  can  imagine.  This 
is  his  sister,  so  I  leave  you  to  suppose  what  she  is. 


204  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

I  shall  be  obliged  to  laugh  outright,  I  know  I 
shall!"  cried  the  charming  girl.  *'I  never  shall 
be  able  to  keep  my  face  straight.  The  notion 
of  a  Miss  Pinch  really  living  at  all  is  sufficient  to 
kill  one,  but  to  see  her — oh  my  stars!" 

Mrs.  Todgers  laughed  immensely  at  the  dear 
love's  humor,  and  declared  she  was  quite  afraid  of 
her,  that  she  was.     She  was  so  very  severe. 

*'Who  is  severe?"  cried  a  voice  at  the  door. 
"There  is  no  such  thing  as  severity  in  our  family, 
I  hope!"  And  then  Mr.  Pecksniff  peeped  smil- 
ingly into  the  room,  and  said,  "May  I  come  in, 
Mrs.  Todgers?" 

Mrs.  Todgers  almost  screamed,  for  the  little 
door  between  that  room  and  the  inner  one  being 
wide  open,  there  was  a  full  showing  of  the  sofa- 
bedstead  open  as  a  bed,  and  not  closed  as  a  sofa. 
But  she  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  close  it  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye;  and  having  done  so,  said, 
though  not  without  confusion,  "Oh  yes,  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  you  can  come  in  if  you  please." 

"How  are  we  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
jocosely;  "and  what  are  our  plans?  Are  we 
ready  to  go  and  see  Tom  Pinch's  sister?  Ha,  ha, 
ha !     Poor  Thomas  Pinch !' ' 

"Are  we  ready,"  returned  Mrs.  Todgers,  nod- 
ding her  head  in  a  mysterious  manner,  "to  send  a 


TODGERS'  205 

favorable  reply  to  Mr.  Jinkins'  round-robin?* 
That's  the  first  question,  Mr.  Pecksniff." 

"Why  Mr.  Jinkins'  robin,  my  dear  madam?" 
asked  Mr.  Pecksniff,  putting  one  arm  round 
Mercy  and  the  other  round  Mrs.  Todgers,  whom 
he  seemed  for  the  moment,  to  mistake  for  Charity. 
''Why  Mr.  Jinkins'?" 

"Because  he  began  to  get  it  up,  and  indeed 
always  takes  the  lead  in  the  house,"  said  Mrs. 
Todgers,  playfully.     "That's  why,  sir." 

"Jinkins  is  a  man  of  superior  talents,"  observed 
Mr.  Pecksniff.  "I  have  formed  a  great  regard  for 
Jinkins.  I  take  Jinkins'  desire  to  pay  polite  atten- 
tion to  my  daughters  as  an  additional  proof  of  the 
friendly  feelings  of  Jinkins,  Mrs.  Todgers." 

"Well  now,"  returned  the  lady,  "having  said 
so  much,  you  must  say  the  rest,  Mr.  Pecksniff :  so 
tell  the  dear  young  ladies  all  about  it." 

With  these  words,  she  gently  drew  away  from 
Mr.  Pecksniff's  grasp,  and  took  Miss  Charity 
into  her  own  embrace;  though  whether  she  was 
led  to  this  act  solely  by  the  affection  she  had  con- 
ceived for  that  yotmg  lady,  or  whether  it  had  any 
reference  to  a  lowering,  not  to  say  distinctly 
spiteful  expression  which  had  been  visible  in  her 

*  A  "round-robin"  is  a  letter  signed  by  all  the  people  of  a  company, 
with  the  names  written  in  a  circle  around  the  letter  so  that  no  name  will 
be  fiirst  or  last. 


2o6  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

face  for  some  moments,  has  never  been  exactly 
ascertained.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Mr.  Pecksniff 
went  on  to  inform  his  daughters  of  the  purpose  and 
history  of  the  round -robin  aforesaid,  which  was,  in 
brief,  that  the  young  men  who  helped  to  make 
up  the  sum  and  substance  of  that  company,  called 
Todgers',  desired  the  honor  of  their  presence  at 
the  general  table  so  long  as  they  remained  in  the 
house,  and  besought  that  they  would  grace  the 
board  at  dinner-time  next  day,  the  same  being 
Sunday.  He  further  said  that,  Mrs.  Todgers 
having  consented  to  this  invitation,  he  was  willing, 
for  his  part,  to  accept  it ;  and  so  left  them  that  he 
might  write  his  gracious  answer,  the  while  they 
armed  themselves  with  their  best  bonnets  for  the 
utter  defeat  and  overthrow  of  Miss  Pinch. 

Tom  Pinch's  sister  was  governess  in  a  family, 
a  lofty  family;  perhaps  the  wealthiest  brass  and 
copper  founder's  family  known  to  mankind. 
They  lived  at  Camberwell;  in  a  house  so  big  and 
fierce  that  its  mere  outside,  like  the  outside  of  a 
giant's  castle,  struck  terror  into  vulgar  minds 
and  made  bold  persons  quail.  There  was  a  great 
front  gate,  with  a  great  bell,  whose  handle  was  in 
itself  a  note  of  admiration;  and  a  great  lodge, 
which,  being  close  to  the  house,  rather  spoiled 
the   look-out    certainly,    but    made   the    look-in 


TODGERS'  207 

tremendous.  At  this  entry,  a  great  porter  kept 
constant  watch  and  ward ;  and  when  he  gave  the 
visitor  high  leave  to  pass,  he  rang  a  second  great 
bell,  answering  to  whose  notes  a  great  footman 
appeared  in  due  time  at  the  great  hall-door  with 
such  great  tags  upon  his  liveried  shoulders  that 
he  was  perpetually  entangling  and  hooking  him- 
self among  the  chairs  and  tables  and  led  a  life  of 
torment  which  could  scarcely  have  been  surpassed 
if  he  had  been  a  blue-bottle  in  a  world  of  cobwebs. 

To  this  mansion,  Mr.  Pecksniff,  accompanied 
by  his  daughters  and  Mrs.  Todgers,  drove  gal- 
lantly in  a  one-horse  fly.  The  foregoing  ceremo- 
nies having  been  all  performed,  they  were  ushered 
into  the  house,  and  so,  by  degrees,  they  got  at  last 
into  a  small  room  with  books  in  it,  where  Mr. 
Pinch's  sister  was  at  that  moment  instructing  her 
eldest  pupil :  to  wit,  a  little  woman  thirteen  years 
old,  who  had  already  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  of 
whalebone  and  education  that  she  had  nothing 
girlish  about  her;  which  was  a  source  of  great 
rejoicing  to  all  her  relations  and  friends. 

"Visitors  for  Miss  Pinch!"  said  the  footman. 
He  must  have  been  an  ingenious  young  man,  for 
he  said  it  very  cleverly;  with  a  nice  distinction 
in  his  manner  between  the  cold  respect  with  which 
he  would  have  announced  visitors  to  the  family 


2o8  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

and  the  warm  personal  interest  with  which  he 
would  have  announced  visitors  to  the  cook. 

''Visitors  for  Miss  Pinch!" 

Miss  Pinch  rose  hastily  with  such  tokens  of 
agitation  as  plainly  declared  that  her  list  of  callers 
was  not  numerous.  At  the  same  time,  the  little 
pupil  became  alarmingly  upright,  and  prepared 
herself  to  take  notice  of  all  that  might  be  said  and 
done.  For  the  lady  of  the  establishment  was 
curious  in  the  natural  history  and  habits  of  the 
animal  called  Governess,  and  encouraged  her 
daughters  to  report  thereon  whenever  occasion 
served ;  which  was,  in  reference  to  all  parties  con- 
cerned, very  proper,  improving,  and  pleasant. 

It  is  a  melancholy  fact,  but  it  must  be  related, 
that  Mr.  Pinch's  sister  was  not  at  all  ugly.  On 
the  contrary,  she  had  a  good  face — a  very  mild 
and  friendly  face;  and  a  pretty  little  figure — 
slight  and  short,  but  remarkable  for  its  neatness. 
There  was  something  of  her  brother,  much  of  him 
indeed,  in  a  certain  gentleness  of  manner,  and  in 
her  look  of  timid  truthfulness ;  but  she  was  so  far 
from  being  a  fright,  or  a  dowdy,  or  a  horror,  or 
anything  else  predicted  by  the  two  Misses  Pecksniff, 
that  those  young  ladies  naturally  regarded  her 
with  great  indignation,  feeling  that  this  was  by 
no  means  what  they  had  come  to  see. 


TODGERS'  209 

Miss  Mercy,  as  having  the  larger  share  of  gayety, 
bore  up  the  best  against  this  disappointment,  and 
carried  it  off,  in  outward  show  at  least,  with  a 
titter;  but  her  sister,  not  caring  to  hide  her  dis- 
dain, expressed  it  pretty  openly  in  her  looks.  As 
to  Mrs.  Todgers,  she  leaned  on  Mr.  Pecksniff's 
arm  and  preserved  a  kind  of  genteel  grimness, 
suitable  to  afiy  state  of  mind,  and  involving  any 
shade  of  opinion. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  Miss  Pinch,"  said  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  taking  her  hand  condescendingly  in  one 
of  his,  and  patting  it  with  the  other.  "I  have 
called  to  see  you,  in  pursuance  of  a  promise  given 
to  your  brother,  Thomas  Pinch.  My  name — 
compose  yourself,  Miss  Pinch — is  Pecksniff." 

The  good  man  spoke  these  words  as  though  he 
would  have  said,  "You  see  in  me,  young  person, 
the  friend  of  your  race ;  the  patron  of  your  house ; 
the  preserver  of  your  brother,  who  is  fed  with 
manna  daily  from  my  table ;  and  in  right  of  whom 
there  is  a  considerable  balance  in  my  favor  at 
present  standing  in  the  books  beyond  the  sky. 
But  I  have  no  pride,  for  I  can  afford  to  do  without 
it!" 

The  poor  girl  felt  it  all  as  if  it  had  been  Gospel 
Truth.  Her  brother,  writing  in  the  fullness  of 
his  simple  heart,  had  often  told  her  so,  and  how 

14 


2IO  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

much  more!  As  Mr.  Pecksniff  ceased  to  speak, 
she  hung  her  head,  and  dropped  a  tear  upon  his 
hand. 

"Oh,  very  well,  Miss  Pinch!"  thought  the  sharp 
pupil,  "crying  before  strangers  as  if  you  didn't 
like  the  situation!" 

"Thomas  is  well,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff;  "and 
sends  his  love  and  this  letter.  I  cannot  say,  poor 
fellow,  that  he  will  ever  become  great  in  our  pro- 
fession; but  he  has  the  will  to  do  well,  which  is 
the  next  thing  to  having  the  power;  and,  there- 
fore, we  must  bear  with  him.     Eh?" 

"I  know  he  has  the  will,  sir,"  said  Tom  Pinch's 
sister,  "and  I  know  how  kindly  and  thoughtfully 
you  cherish  it,  for  which  neither  he  nor  I  can  ever 
be  grateful  enough,  as  we  often  say  in  writing  to 
each  other.  The  young  ladies,  too,"  she  added, 
glancing  gratefully  at  his  two  daughters.  "I 
know  how  much  we  owe  to  them." 

"My  dears,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  turning  to  them 
with  a  smile:  "Thomas'  sister  is  saying  something 
you  will  be  glad  to  hear,  I  think." 

"We  can't  take  any  merit  to  ourselves,  papa!" 
cried  Cherry,  as  they  both  showed  Tom  Pinch's 
sister,  with  a  courtesy,  that  they  would  feel 
obliged  if  she  would  keep  her  distance.  "Mr. 
Pinch's  being  so  well  provided  for  is  owing  to  you 


TODGERS' 


211 


alone,  and  we  can  only  say  how  glad  we  are  to 
hear  that  he  is  as  grateful  as  he  ought  to  be." 

"Oh,  very  well,  Miss  Pinch!"  thought  the  pupil 
again.  "Got  a  grateful  brother,  living  on  other 
people's  kindness !" 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Tom  Pinch's 
sister,  with  Tom's  own  simplicity  and  Tom's  own 
smile,  "to  come  here — very  kind  indeed:  though 
how  great  a  kindness  you  have  done  me  in  gratify- 
ing my  wish  to  see  you,  and  to  thank  you  with  my 
own  lips,  you,  who  make  so  light  of  benefits  con- 
ferred, can  scarcely  think." 

"Very  grateful;  very  pleasant;  very  proper;" 
murmured  Mr.  Pecksniff. 

"It  makes  me  happy  too,"  said  Ruth  Pinch, 
who,  now  that  her  first  surprise  was  over,  had  a 
chatty,  cheerful  way  with  her,  and  a  single-hearted 
desire  to  look  upon  the  best  side  of  everything, 
which  was  the  very  moral  and  image  of  Tom; 
"very  happy  to  think  that  you  will  be  able  to  tell 
him  how  more  than  comfortably  I  am  situated 
here,  and  how  unnecessary  it  is  that  he  should  ever 
waste  a  regret  on  my  being  cast  upon  my  own 
resources.  Dear  me!  So  long  as  I  heard  that  he 
was  happy  and  he  heard  that  I  was,"  said  Tom's 
sister,  "we  could  both  bear,  without  one  impatient 
or  complaining  thought,  a  great  deal  more  than 


212  mCtCENS'  CHILDREN 

ever  we  have  had  to  endure,  I  am  certain."  And 
if  ever  the  plain  truth  were  spoken  on  this  occa- 
sionally false  earth,  Tom's  sister  spoke  it  when  she 
said  that. 

*'Ah!"  cried  Mr.  Pecksniff,  whose  eyes  had  in  the 
meantime  wandered  to  the  pupil;  "certainly. 
And  how  do  you  do,  my  very  interesting  child?" 

''Quite  w^ell,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  that 
frosty  innocent. 

"A  sweet  face  this,  my  dears,"  said  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff, turning  to  his  daughters.  "A  charming 
manner!" 

Both  young  ladies  had  been  in  delight  with  the 
child  of  a  wealthy  house  (through  whom  the 
nearest  road  and  shortest  cut  to  her  parents 
might  be  supposed  to  lie)  from  the  first.  Mrs. 
Todgers  vowed  that  anything  one-quarter  so 
angelic  she  had  never  seen.  **She  wanted  but  a 
pair  of  wings,  a  dear,"  said  that  good  woman,  ''to 
be  a  young  syrup" — meaning,  possibly,  young 
sylph  or  seraph. 

"If  you  will  give  that  to  your  distinguished 
parents,  my  amiable  little  friend,"  said  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff, producing  one  of  his  professional  cards, 
"and  will  say  that  I  and  my  daughters " 

"And  Mrs.  Todgers,  pa,"  said  Mercy. 

"And   Mrs.   Todgers,   of   London,"   added   Mr. 


TODGERS'  213 

Pecksniff,  "that  I,  and  my  daughters,  and  Mrs. 
Todgers,  of  London,  did  not  intrude  upon  them, 
as  our  object  simply  was  to  take  some  notice  of 
Miss  Pinch,  whose  brother  is  a  young  man  in  my 
employment ;  but  that  I  could  not  leave  this  very 
noble  mansion  without  adding  my  humble  tribute, 
as  an  architect,  to  the  correctness  and  elegance 
of  the  owner's  taste,  and  to  his  just  appreciation 
of  that  beautiful  art,  to  the  cultivation  of  which  I 
have  devoted  a  life,  and  to  the  promotion  of  whose 
glory  and  advancement  I  have  sacrificed  a — a 
fortune — I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"Missis'  compliments  to  Miss  Pinch,"  said  the 
footman,  suddenly  appearing  and  speaking  in 
exactly  the  same  key  as  before,  "and  begs  to  know 
wot  my  young  lady  is  a-leaming  of  just  now." 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  "here  is  the  young 
man.  He  will  take  the  card.  With  my  compli- 
ments, if  you  please,  young  man.  My  dears,  we 
are  interrupting  the  studies.     Let  us  go." 

One  evening,  following  the  visit  to  Miss  Pinch, 
there  was  a  great  bustle  at  Todgers',  partly  owing 
to  some  additional  domestic  preparations  for  the 
morrow  and  partly  to  the  excitement  always 
arising  in  that  house  from  Saturday  night,  when 
every  gentleman's  linen  an'ived  at  a  different 
hour  in  his  own  little  bundle,  with  his  private 


214  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

account  pinned  on  the  outside.  Shrill  quarrels 
from  time  to  time  arose  between  Mrs.  Todgers 
and  the  girls  in  remote  back  kitchens ;  and  sounds 
were  occasionally  heard,  indicative  of  small 
articles  of  ironmongery  and  hardware  being 
thrown  at  the  boy.  It  was  the  custom  of  that 
youth  on  vSaturdays  to  roll  up  his  shirt  sleeves  to 
his  shoulders,  and  pervade  all  parts  of  the  house 
in  an  apron  of  coarse  green  baize;  moreover,  he 
was  more  strongly  tempted  on  Saturdays  than  on 
other  days  (it  being  a  busy  time)  to  make  bolts 
into  the  neighboring  alleys  when  he  answered 
the  door,  and  there  to  play  at  leap-frog  and  other 
sports  with  vagrant  lads,  until  pursued  and 
brought  back  by  the  hair  of  his  head  or  the  lobe 
of  his  ear ;  thus,  he  was  quite  a  conspicuous  feature 
among  the  peculiar  incidents  of  the  last  day  in 
the  week  at  Todgers'. 

He  was  especially  so  on  this  particular  Saturday 
evening,  and  honored  the  Misses  Pecksniff  with 
a  deal  of  notice ;  seldom  passing  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Todgers'  private  room,  where  they  sat  alone  before 
the  fire,  without  putting  in  his  head  and  greeting 
them  with  some  such  compliments  as,  'There  you 
are  again!"  * 'Ain't  it  nice?" — and  similar  hu- 
morous attentions. 

"I  say,"  he  whispered,  stopping  in  one  of  his 


TODGERS'  215 

journeys  to  and  fro,  "young  ladies,  there's  soup 
to-morrow.  She's  a-making  it  now.  Ain't  she 
a-putting  in  the  water?     Oh!  not  at  all  neither!" 

In  the  course  of  answering  another  knock,  he 
thrust  in  his  head  again : 

*'I  say — there's  fowls  to-morrow.  Not  skinny 
ones.     Oh  no!" 

Presently  he  called  through  the  keyhole : 

"There's  a  fish  to-morrow — just  come.  Don't 
eat  none  of  him!"  and  with  this  spectral  warning 
vanished  again. 

By-and-by,  he  returned  to  lay  the  cloth  for 
supper.  He  entertained  them  on  this  occasion 
by  thrusting  the  lighted  candle  into  his  mouth, 
after  the  performance  of  which  feat,  he  went  on 
with  his  professional  duties;  brightening  every 
knife  as  he  laid  it  on  the  table,  by  breathing  on  the 
blade  and  afterwards  polishing  the  same  on  the 
apron  already  mentioned.  When  he  had  com- 
pleted his  preparations,  he  grinned  at  the  sisters, 
and  expressed  his  belief  that  the  approaching 
meal  would  be  of  "rather  a  spicy  sort." 

*'Will  it  be  long  before  it's  ready,  Bailey?" 
asked  Mercy. 

*'No,"  said  Bailey,  "it  is  cooked.'^  When  I 
come  up  she  was  dodging  among  the  tender 
pieces  with  a  fork,  and  eating  of  'em." 


2i6  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

But  he  had  scarcely  achieved  the  utterance  of 
these  words,  when  he  received  a  sudden  blow  on 
the  head,  which  sent  him  staggering  against  the 
wall;  and  Mrs.  Todgers,  dish  in  hand,  stood 
indignantly  before  him. 

"Oh  you  little  villain!"  said  that  lady.  "Oh 
you  bad,  false  boy!" 

"No  worse  than  yerself,"  retorted  Bailey, 
guarding  his  head  with  his  arm.  "Ah!  Come 
now!     Do  that  agin,  will  yer!" 

"He*s  the  most  dreadful  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Todgers,  setting  down  the  dish,  "I  ever  had  to 
deal  with.  The  gentlemen  spoil  him  to  that 
extent,  and  teach  him  such  things,  that  I'm  afraid 
nothing  but  hanging  will  ever  do  him  any  good." 

"Won't  it!"  cried  Bailey.  "Oh!  Yes!  Wot 
do  you  go  a-lowerin'  the  table-beer  for,  then,  and 
destroying  my  constitooshun?" 

"Go  down-stairs,  you  vicious  boy!"  said  Mrs. 
Todgers,  holding  the  door  open.  "Do  you  hear 
me?     Go  along!" 

After  two  or  three  skilful  dodges  he  went,  and 
was  seen  no  more  that  night,  save  once,  when  he 
brought  up  some  tumblers  and  hot  water,  and 
much  disturbed  the  two  Misses  Pecksniff  by  squint- 
ing hideously  behind  the  back  of  the  unconscious 
Mrs.  Todgers.     Having  done  this  justice  to  his 


TODGERS'  217 

wounded  feelings,  he  retired  under-ground ;  where, 
in  company  with  a  swarm  of  black  beetles  and  a 
kitchen  candle,  he  employed  himself  in  cleaning 
boots  and  brushing  clothes  until  the  night  was 
far  advanced. 

Benjamin  was  supposed  to  be  the  real  name  of 
this  young  servant,  but  he  was  known  by  a  great 
variety  of  names.  Benjamin,  for  instance,  had 
been  converted  into  Uncle  Ben,  and  that  again 
had  been  corrupted  into  Uncle.  The  gentlemen 
at  Todgers'  had  a  merry  habit,  too,  of  bestowing 
upon  him,  for  the  time  being,  the  name  of  any 
notorious  criminal  or  minister;  and  sometimes, 
when  current  events  were  flat,  they  even  sought 
the  pages  of  history  for  these  distinctions ;  as  Mr. 
Pitt,  Young  Brownrigg,  and  the  like.  At  the 
period  of  which  we  write,  he  was  generally  known 
among  the  gentlemen  as  Bailey  junior;  a  name 
bestowed  upon  him  in  contradistinction,  perhaps, 
to  the  Old  Bailey  prison ;  and  possibly  as  involving 
the  recollection  of  an  unfortunate  lady  of  the  same 
name,  who  perished  by  her  own  hand  early  in  life, 
and  has  been  made  famous  in  a  song. 

The  usual  Sunday  dinner-hour  at  Todgers'  was 
two  o'clock — a  suitable  time,  it  was  considered, 
for  all  parties;  convenient  to  Mrs.  Todgers,  on 
account  of  the  baker's;  and  convenient  to  the 


2i8  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

gentlemen,  with  reference  to  their  afternoon 
engagements.  But  on  the  Sunday  which  was  to 
introduce  the  two  Misses  Pecksniff  to  a  full  know- 
ledge of  Todgers'  and  its  society,  the  dinner  was 
postponed  until  five,  in  order  that  everything 
might  be  as  genteel  as  the  occasion  demanded. 

When  the  hour  drew  nigh,  Bailey  junior,  testify- 
ing great  excitement,  appeared  in  a  complete  suit 
of  cast-off  clothes  several  sizes  too  large  for  him, 
and,  in  particular,  mounted  a  clean  shirt  of  such 
extraordinary  magnitude  that  one  of  the  gentle- 
men (remarkable  for  his  ready  wit)  called  him 
"collars"  on  the  spot.  At  about  a  quarter  before 
five  a  deputation,  consisting  of  Mr.  Jinkins  and 
another  gentleman  whose  name  was  Gander, 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Todgers'  room,  and, 
being  formally  introduced  to  the  two  Misses  Peck- 
sniff by  their  parent,  who  was  in  waiting,  be- 
sought the  honor  of  showing  them  up-stairs. 

Here  the  gentlemen  were  all  assembled.  There 
was  a  general  cry  of  "Hear,  hear!"  and  "Bravo, 
Jink!"  when  Mr.  Jinkins  appeared  with  Charity 
on  his  arm:  which  became  quite  rapturous  as 
Mr.  Gander  followed,  escorting  Mercy,  and  Mr. 
Pecksniff  brought  up  the  rear  with  Mrs.  Todgers. 

"The  wittles  is  up!" 


XI. 


DICK  SWIVELLER  AND  THE  MARCH- 
IONESS. 

RICHARD  SWIVELLER,  a  good-hearted, 
though  somewhat  queer  young  man,  the 
clerk  of  Sampson  Brass,  a  scheming  law- 
yer, often  found  time  hanging  heavily  on  his 
hands;  and  for  the  better  preservation  of  his 
cheerfulness  therefore,  and  to  prevent  his  faculties 
from  rusting,  he  provided  himself  with  a  cribbage- 
board  and  pack  of  cards,  and  accustomed  himself 
to  play  at  cribbage  with  a  dummy,  for  twenty, 
thirty,  or  sometimes  even  fifty  thousand  pounds 
a  side,  besides  many  hazardous  bets  to  a  con- 
siderable amount. 

As  these  games  were  very  silently  conducted, 
notwithstanding  the  greatness  of  the  interests 
involved,  Mr.  Swiveller,  began  to  think  that  on 
those  evenings  when  Mr.  and  Miss  Brass  were  out 
(and  they  often  went  out  now)  he  heard  a  kind  of 
snorting  or  hard-breathing  sound  in  the  direction 
of  the  door,  which  it  occurred  to  him,  after  some 
thought,  must  proceed  from  the  small  servant, 

(219) 


220  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

who  always  had  a  cold  from  damp  living.  Look- 
ing intently  that  way  one  night,  he  plainly  dis- 
tinguished an  eye  gleaming  and  glistening  at  the 
keyhole;  and  having  now  no  doubt  that  his 
suspicions  were  correct,  he  stole  softly  to  the  door 
and  pounced  upon  her  before  she  was  aware  of  his 
approach. 

"Oh!  I  didn't  mean  any  harm  indeed.  Upon 
my  word  I  didn't,"  cried  the  small  servant,  strug- 
gling like  a  much  larger  one.  ''It's  so  very  dull 
down-stairs.  Please  don't  you  tell  upon  me; 
please  don't." 

"Tell  upon  you!"  said  Dick.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  you  were  looking  through  the  keyhole  for 
company?" 

"Yes,  upon  my  word  I  was,"  replied  the  small 
servant. 

"How  long  have  you  been  cooling  your  eye 
there?"  said  Dick. 

"Oh,  ever  since  you  first  began  to  play  them 
cards,  and  long  before." 

Vague  recollections  of  several  fantastic  exer- 
cises such  as  dancing  around  the  room,  and  bowing 
to  imaginary  people  with  which  he  had  refreshed 
himself  after  the  fatigues  of  business ;  all  of  which, 
no  doubt,  the  small  ser\^ant  had  seen  through  the 
keyhole,  made  Mr.  Swiveller  feel  rather  awkward ; 


DICK  SWIVELLER  221 

but  he  was  not  very  sensitive  on  such  points,  and 
recovered  himself  speedily. 

"Well — come  in,"  he  said,  after  a  little  thought. 
"Here — sit  down,  and  I'll  teach  you  how  to  play." 

"Oh!  I  durstn't  do  it,"  rejoined  the  small  ser- 
vant. "Miss  Sally  'ud  kill  me,  if  she  know'd  I 
came  up  here." 

"Have  you  got  a  fire  down-stairs?"  said  Dick. 

"A  very  little  one,"  replied  the  small  servant. 

"Miss  Sally  couldn't  kill  me  if  she  know'd  I 
went  down  there,  so  I'll  come,"  said  Richard, 
putting  the  cards  into  his  pocket.  "Why,  how 
thin  you  are!    What  do  you  mean  by  it?" 

"It  ain't  my  fault." 

"Could  you  eat  any  bread  and  meat?"  said 
Dick,  taking  down  his  hat.  "Yes?  Ah!  I 
thought  so.     Did  you  ever  taste  beer?" 

"I  had  a  sip  of  it  once,"  said  the  small  servant. 

"Here's  a  state  of  things!"  cried  Mr.  Sv/iveller, 
raising  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling.  "She  never  tasted 
it — it  can't  be  tasted  in  a  sip !  Why,  how  old  are 
you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Swiveller  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  and 
appeared  thoughtful  for  a  moment ;  then,  bidding 
the  child  mind  the  door  until  he  came  back,  van- 
ished straightway. 


222  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

Presently  he  returned,  followed  by  the  boy  from 
the  public  house,  who  bore  in  one  hand  a  plate  of 
bread  and  beef  and  in  the  other  a  great  pot,  filled 
with  some  very  fragrant  compound,  which  sent 
forth  a  grateful  steam,  and  was  indeed  choice  pur] 
made  after  a  particular  rule  which  Mr.  Swiveller 
had  given  to  the  landlord  at  a  period  when  he  was 
deep  in  his  books  and  desirous  to  win  his  friend- 
ship. Relieving  the  boy  of  his  burden  at  the  door, 
and  charging  his  little  companion  to  fasten  it  to 
prevent  surprise,  Mr.  Swiveller  followed  her  into 
the  kitchen. 

"There!"  said  Richard,  putting  the  plate  before 
her.  "First  of  all,  clear  that  off,  and  then  you'll 
see  what's  next." 

The  small  servant  needed  no  second  bidding, 
and  the  plate  was  soon  empty. 

"Next,"  said  Dick,  handing  the  purl,  "take  a 
pull  at  that;  but  moderate  your  delight,  you 
know,  for  you're  not  used  to  it.  Well,  is  it 
good?" 

"Oh!  isn't  it?"  said  the  small  servant. 

Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  gratified  beyond  all 
expression  by  this  reply,  and  took  a  long  draught 
himself,  steadfastly  regarding  his  companion 
while  he  did  so.  These  matters  disposed  of,  he 
applied  himself  to  teaching  her  the  game,  which 


DICK  SWIVELLER  223 

she  soon  learnt  tolerably  well,  being  both  sharp- 
witted  and  cunning. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  two  six- 
jrences  into  a  saucer,  and  trimming  the  wretched 
candle,  when  the  cards  had  been  cut  and  dealt, 
"those  are  the  stakes.  If  you  win,  you  get  'em 
all.  If  I  win,  I  get  'em.  To  make  it  seem  more 
real  and  pleasant,  I  shall  call  you  the  Marchioness, 
do  you  hear?" 

The  small  servant  nodded. 

"Marchioness,"  as  the  reader  knows,  is  a  title 
to  a  lady  of  very  high  rank,  and  such  Mr.  Swiveller 
chose  to  imagine  this  small  servant  to  be. 

"Then,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "fire 
away!" 

The  Marchioness,  holding  her  cards  very  tight 
in  both  hands,  considered  which  to  play,  and  Mr. 
Swiveller,  assuming  the  gay  and  fashionable  air 
which  such  society  required,  took  another  pull  at 
the  jug  and  waited  for  her  to  lead  in  the  game. 

Mr.  Swiveller  and  his  partner  played  several 
rubbers  with  varying  success,  imtil  the  loss  of  three 
sixpences,  the  gradual  sinking  of  the  purl,  and  the 
striking  of  ten  o'clock,  combined  to  render  that 
gentleman  mindful  of  the  flight  of  time,  and  the 
wisdom  of  withdrawing  before  Mr.  Sampson  and 
Miss  Sally  Brass  returned. 


«24  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"With  which  object  in  view,  Marchioness,** 
said  Mr.  Swiveller  gravely,  "I  shall  ask  your  lady- 
ship's permission  to  put  the  board  in  my  pocket, 
and  to  retire  from  the  presence  when  I  have 
finished  this  glass ;  merely  observing,  Marchioness, 
that  since  life  like  a  river  is  flowing,  I  care  not  how 
fast  it  rolls  on,  ma'am,  on,  while  such  purl  on  the 
bank  still  is  growing,  and  such  eyes  light  the  waves 
as  they  run.  Marchioness,  your  health !  You  will 
excuse  my  wearing  my  hat  but  the  palace  is  damp, 
and  the  marble  floor  is — if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
expression — sloppy. ' ' 

As  a  protection  against  this  latter  inconvenience 
Mr.  Swiveller  had  been  sitting  for  some  time  with 
his  feet  on  the  hob,  in  which  attitude  he  now  gave 
utterance  to  these  apologetic  observations,  and 
slowly  sipped  the  last  choice  drops  of  nectar. 

"The  Baron  Sampsono  Brasso  and  his  fair  sister 
are  (you  tell  me)  at  the  Play?"  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
leaning  his  left  arm  heavily  upon  the  table,  and 
raising  his  voice  and  his  right  leg  after  the  man- 
ner of  a  bandit  in  the  theater. 

The  Marchioness  nodded. 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Swiveller  with  a  portentous 
frown.  "'Tis  well,  Marchioness! — ^but  no  matter. 
Some  wine  there.  Ho!"  He  illustrated  these 
melodramatic  morsels  by  handing  the  glass  to 


DICK  SWIVELLER  225 

himself  with  great  humility,  receiving  it  haughtily, 
drinking  from  it  thirstily,  and  smacking  his  lips 
fiercely. 

The  small  servant,  who  was  not  so  well  acquain- 
ted with  theatrical  customs  as  Mr.  Swiveller 
(having  indeed  never  seen  a  play  or  heard  one 
spoken  of,  except  by  some  chance  through  chinks 
of  doors  and  in  other  forbidden  places),  was 
rather  alarmed  by  demonstrations  so  strange  in 
their  nature,  and  showed  her  concern  so  plainly 
in  her  looks  that  Mr.  Swiveller  felt  it  necessary  to 
change  his  brigand  manner  for  one  more  suitable 
to  private  life,  as  he  asked: 

"Do  they  often  go  where  glory  waits  'em,  and 
leave  you  here?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  believe  they  do,"  returned  the 
small  servant.  "Miss  Sally's  such  a  one-er  for 
that,  she  is." 

"Such  a  what?"  said  Dick. 

"Such  a  one-er,"  returned  the  Marchioness. 

After  a  moment's  reflection,  Mr.  Swiveller 
determined  to  forego  his  responsible  duty  of  set- 
ting her  right  and  to  suffer  her  to  talk  on,  as  it 
was  evident  that  her  tongue  was  loosened  by  the 
purl  and  her  opportunities  for  conversation  were 
not  so  frequent  as  to  render  a  momentary  check 
of  little  consequence. 

15 


226  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"They  sometimes  go  to  see  Mr.  Quilp,"  said  the 
small  servant  with  a  shrewd  look;  "they  go  to  a 
good  many  places,  bless  you." 

"Is  Mr.  Brass  a  wunner?"  said  Dick. 

"Not  half  what  Miss  Sally  is,  he  isn't,"  replied 
the  small  servant,  shaking  her  head.  "Bless  you, 
he'd  never  do  anything  without  her." 

"Oh!     He  wouldn't,  wouldn't  he?"  said  Dick. 

"Miss  Sally  keeps  him  in  such  order,"  said  the 
small  servant;  "he  always  asks  her  advice,  he 
does;  and  he  catches  it  sometimes.  Bless  you, 
you  wouldn't  believe  how  much  he  catches  it." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dick,  "that  they  consult 
together  a  good  deal,  and  talk  about  a  great  many 
people — about  me,  for  instance  sometimes,  eh. 
Marchioness?" 

The  Marchioness  nodded  amazingly. 

"Do  they  speak  of  me  in  a  friendly  manner?", 
said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

The  Marchioness  changed  the  motion  of  her 
head,  which  had  not  yet  left  off  nodding,  and 
suddenly  began  to  shake  it  from  side  to  side  so 
hard  as  to  threaten  breaking  her  neck. 

"Humph!"  Dick  muttered.  "Would  it  be  any 
breach  of  confidence,  Marchioness,  to  relate  what 
they  say  of  the  humble  individual  who  has  now 
the  honor  to ?" 


DICK  SWIVELLER  227 

"Miss  Sally  says  you're  a  funny  chap,"  replied 
his  friend. 

"Well,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "that's 
not  uncomplimentary.  Merriment,  Marchioness, 
is  not  a  bad  or  degrading  quality.  Old  King  Cole 
was  himself  a  merry  old  soul,  if  we  may  put  any 
faith  in  the  pages  of  history." 

"But  she  says,"  pursued  his  companion,  "that 
you  ain't  to  be  trusted." 

"Why,  really,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller 
thoughtfully;  "several  ladies  and  gentlemen — 
not  exactly  professional  persons,  but  trades- 
people, ma'am,  tradespeople — have  made  the 
same  remark.  The  person  who  keeps  the  hotel 
over  the  way  inclined  strongly  to  that  opinion  to- 
night when  I  ordered  him  to  prepare  the  banquet. 
It's  a  popular  prejudice,  Marchioness;  and  yet  I 
am  sure  I  don't  know  why,  for  I  have  been  trusted 
in  my  time  to  a  considerable  amount,  and  I  can 
safely  say  that  I  never  forsook  my  trust  until  it 
deserted  me — never.  Mr.  Brass  is  of  the  same 
opinion,  I  suppose?" 

His  friend  nodded  again,  with  a  cunning  look 
which  seemed  to  hint  that  Mr.  Brass  held  stronger 
opinions  on  the  subject  than  his  sister ;  and  seeming 
to  recollect  herself,  added  iin]^loringly,  "But  don't 
you  ever  tell  upon  me,  or  I  shall  be  beat  to  death. " 


228  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  rising,  "the 
word  of  a  gentleman  is  as  good  as  his  bond — 
sometimes  better ;  as  in  the  present  case,  where 
his  bond  might  prove  but  a  doubtful  sort  of 
security.  I  am  your  friend,  and  I  hope  we  shall 
play  many  more  rubbers  together  in  the  same 
saloon.  But,  Marchioness,"  added  Richard,  stop- 
ping on  his  way  to  the  door,  and  wheeling  slowly 
round  upon  the  small  servant,  who  was  following 
with  the  candle,  "it  occurs  to  me  that  you  must 
be  in  the  constant  habit  of  airing  your  eye  at 
keyholes,  to  know  all  this." 

"I  only  wanted,"  replied  the  trembling  Mar- 
chioness, "to  know  where  the  key  of  the  safe  was 
hid;  that  was  all;  and  I  wouldn't  have  taken 
much,  if  I  had  found  it — only  enough  to  squench 
my  hunger." 

"You  didn't  find  it,  then?"  said  Dick.  "But 
of  course  you  didn't,  or  you'd  be  plumper.  Good- 
night, Marchioness.  Fare  thee  well,  and  if  forever, 
then  forever  fare  thee  well — and  put  up  the  chain, 
Marchioness,  in  case  of  accidents." 

Vv^ith  this  parting  word,  Mr.  Swiveller  came  out 
from  the  house;  and  feeling  that  he  had  by  this 
time  taken  quite  as  much  to  drink  as  promised  to 
be  good  for  his  constitution  (purl  being  a  rather 
strong  and  heady  compound),  wisely  resolved  to 


DICK  SWIVELLER  229 

betake  himself  to  his  lodgings,  and  to  bed  at  once. 
Homeward  he  went  therefore ;  and  his  apartments 
(for  he  still  spoke  of  his  one  little  room  as  "apart- 
ments") being  at  no  great  distance  from  the  office, 
he  was  soon  seated  in  his  own  bed-chamber,  where, 
having  pulled  off  one  boot  and  forgotten  the 
other,  he  fell  into  deep  thought. 

'This  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  folding 
his  arms,  **is  a  very  extraordinary  person — sur- 
rounded by  mysteries,  ignorant  of  the  taste  of 
beer,  unacquainted  with  her  own  name  (which  is 
less  remarkable),  and  taking  a  limited  view  of 
society  through  the  keyholes  of  doors — can  these 
things  be  her  destiny,  or  has  some  unknown  per- 
son started  an  opposition  to  the  decrees  of  fate? 
It  is  a  most  amazing  staggerer!" 

When  his  meditations  had  attained  this  sat- 
isfactory point,  he  became  aware  of  his  remaining 
boot,  of  which,  with  great  solemnity,  he  proceeded 
to  divest  himself;  shaking  his  head  with  exceed- 
ing gravity  all  the  time,  and  sighing  deeply. 

* 'These  rubbers,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  on 
his  nightcap  in  exactly  the  same  style  as  he  wore 
his  hat,  "remind  me  of  the  matrimonial  fireside. 
My  old  girl,  Chegg's  wife,  plays  cribbage;  all- 
fours  alike.  She  rings  the  changes  on  'em  now. 
From  sport  to  sport  they  hurry  her,  to  banish  her 


230  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

regrets,  and  when  they  win  a  smile  from  her,  they 
think  that  she  forgets — ^but  she  don't.  By  this 
time,  I  should  say,"  added  Richard,  getting  his 
left  cheek  into  profile,  and  looking  complacently 
at  the  reflection  of  a  very  little  scrap  of  whisker 
in  the  looking-glass;  '*by  this  time,  I  should  say, 
the  iron  has  entered  into  her  soul.  It  serves  her 
right." 

Mr.  Swiveller,  it  must  be  said  had  been  at  one 
time  somewhat  in  love  with  a  young  lady:  but 
she  had  left  his  love  and  married  a  Mr.  Cheggs. 

Melting  from  this  stern  and  harsh  into  the  ten- 
der and  pathetic  mood,  Mr.  Swiveller  groaned  a 
little,  walked  wildly  up  and  down,  and  even  made 
a  show  of  tearing  his  hair,  which,  however,  he 
thought  better  of,  and  wrenched  the  tassel  from 
his  nightcap  instead.  At  last,  undressing  him- 
self with  a  gloomy  resolution,  he  got  into  bed. 

Some  men,  in  his  blighted  position,  would  have 
taken  to  drinking ;  but  as  Mr.  Swiveller  had  taken 
to  that  before,  he  only  took,  on  receiving  the  news 
that  this  girl  was  lost  to  him  forever,  to  playing 
the  flute;  thinking,  after  mature  consideration, 
that  it  was  a  good,  sound,  dismal  occupation, 
not  only  in  unison  with  his  own  sad  thoughts,  but 
tending  to  awaken  a  fellow-feeling  in  the  bosom, 
of  his  neighbors.     Following  out  this  resolution, 


DICK  SWIVELLER  231 

he  now  drew  a  little  table  to  his  bedside,  and, 
arranging  the  light  and  a  small  oblong  music- 
book  to  the  best  advantage,  took  his  flute  from 
its  box  and  began  to  play  most  mournfully. 

The  air  was  '*Away  with  melancholy" — a  com- 
position, which,  when  it  is  played  very  slowly  on 
the  flute  in  bed,  with  the  farther  disadvantage  of 
being  performed  by  a  gentleman  not  fully  ac- 
quainted with  the  instrument,  who  repeats  one 
note  a  great  many  times  before  he  can  find  the 
next,  has  not  a  lively  effect.  Yet  for  half  the 
night,  or  more,  Mr.  Swiveller,  lying  sometimes  on 
his  back  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ceiling  and  some- 
times half  out  of  bed  to  correct  himself  by  the 
book,  played  this  unhappy  tune  over  and  over 
again ;  never  leaving  off,  save  for  a  minute  or  two 
at  a  time  to  take  breath  and  talk  to  himself  about 
the  Marchioness  and  then  beginning  again  with 
renewed  vigor.  It  was  not  until  he  had  quite 
exhausted  his  several  subjects  of  meditation,  and 
had  breathed  into  the  flute  the  whole  sentiment 
of  the  purl  down  to  its  very  dregs,  and  had  nearly 
maddened  the  people  of  the  house,  and  at  both  the 
next  doors,  and  over  the  way — that  he  shut  up  the 
music-book,  extinguished  the  candle,  and,  finding 
himself  greatly  lightened  and  relieved  in  his  mind, 
turned  round  and  fell  asleep. 


232  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

Dick  continued  his  friendly  relations  towards 
the  Marchioness,  and  when  he  fell  ill  with  typhoid 
fever  his  little  friend  nursed  him  back  to  health. 
Just  after  this  illness  an  aunt  of  his  died  and  left 
him  quite  a  large  sum  of  money,  a  portion  of  which 
he  used  to  educate  the  Marchioness,  whom  he 
afterwards  married. 


XII. 
MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE. 

AN  old  country  gentleman  named  Wardle  had 
a  servant  of  whom  he  was  very  proud,  not 
because  of  the  latter's  diligence,  but  be- 
cause Joe,  commonly  called  the  "Fat  Boy,"  w^as  a 
character  which  could  not  be  matched  anywhere  in 
the  world.  At  the  time  when  our  story  opens,  Mr. 
Pickwick  of  London,  and  three  others  of  his 
literary  club,  were  traveling  in  search  of  adventure. 
With  Mr.  Pickwick,  the  founder  and  head  of  the 
Pickwick  club,  were  Mr.  Tupman,  whose  great 
weakness  for  the  ladies  brought  him  frequent 
troubles,  Mr.  Winkle,  whose  desire  to  appear  as  a 
sport  brought  much  ridicule  upon  himself,  and 
Mr.  Snodgrass,  whose  poetic  nature  induced  him 
to  write  many  romantic  verses  which  amused  his 
friends  and  all  who  read  them.  These  four  Pick- 
wickians  were  introduced  one  day  to  Mr.  Wardle, 
his  aged  sister  Miss  Rachel  Wardle,  and  his  two 
daughters,  Emily  and  Isabella,  as  they  were  look- 
ing at  some  army  reviews  from  their  coach.  Mr. 
Wardle  hospitably  asked  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his 
friends  to  join  them  in  the  coach. 

(233) 


234  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

''Come  up  here!  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mr. 
Wardle,  "come  along  sir.  Joe!  Drat  that  boy! 
He's  gone  to  sleep  again.  Joe,  let  down  the  steps 
and  open  the  carriage  door.  Come  ahead,  room 
for  two  of  you  inside  and  one  outside.  Joe,  make 
room  for  one.  Put  this  gentleman  on  the  box!" 
Mr.  Wardle  mounted  with  a  little  help  and  the  fat 
boy,  where  he  was,  fell  fast  asleep. 

One  rank  of  soldiers  after  another  passed,  firing 
over  the  heads  of  another  rank,  and  when  the 
cannon  went  off  the  air  resounded  with  the  screams 
of  ladies.  Mr.  Snodgrass  actually  found  it 
necessary  to  support  one  of  the  Misses  Wardle 
with  his  arm.  Their  maidenly  aunt  w^as  in 
such  a  dreadful  state  of  nervous  alarm  that 
Mr.  Tupman  found  that  he  was  obliged  to 
put  his  arm  about  her  waist  to  keep  her  up 
at  all.  Everyone  was  excited  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  fat  boy,  and  he  slept  as 
soundly  as  if  the  roaring  of  cannon  were  his 
ordinary  lullaby. 

"Joe!  Joe!"  called  Mr.  Wardle.  "Drat  that 
boy!  He's  gone  asleep  again.  Pinch  him  in  the 
leg»  if  you  please.  Nothing  else  wakens  him. 
Thank  you.  Get  out  the  lunch,  Joe."  The  fat 
boy,  who  had  been  effectually  aroused  by  Mr. 
Winkle,  proceeded  to  unpack  the  hamper  with 


MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE      235 

more  quickness  than  could  have  been  expected 
from  his  previous  inactivity. 

"Now  Joe,  knives  and  forks."  The  knives  and 
forks  were  handed  in  and  each  one  was  furnished 
with  these  useful  implements. 

"Now  Joe,  the  fowls.  Drat  that  boy!  He's 
gone  asleep  again.  Joe!  Joe!"  Numerous  taps 
on  the  head  with  a  stick  and  the  fat  boy  with  some 
difficulty  was  awakened.  "Go  hand  in  the  eat- 
ables." There  was  something  in  the  sound  of  the 
last  word  which  aroused  him.  He  jumped  up 
with  reddened  eyes  which  twinkled  behind  his 
mountainous  cheeks,  and  feasted  upon  the  food 
as  he  unpacked  it  from  the  basket. 

"Now  make  haste,"  said  Mr.  Wardle,  for  the  fat 
boy  was  hanging  fondly  over  a  chicken  which  he 
seemed  wholly  unable  to  part  with.  The  boy 
sighed  deeply  and  casting  an  ardent  gaze  upon 
its  plumpness,  unwillingly  handed  it  to  his 
master. 

"A  very  extraordinary  boy,  that,"  said  Mr. 
Pickwdck.     "Does  he  always  sleep  in  this  way?" 

"Sleep !"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "He's  always 
sleeping.  Goes  on  errands  fast  asleep  and  snores 
as  he  waits  at  table." 

"How  very  odd,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"Ah!  odd  indeed,"  returned  the  old  gentleman. 


236  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"rm  proud  of  that  boy.  Wouldn't  part  with  him 
on  any  account.  He's  a  natural  curiosity.  Here, 
Joe,  take  these  things  away  and  open  another 
bottle.  Do  you  hear?"  The  fat  boy  aroused, 
opened  his  eyes,  started  and  finished  the  piece  of 
pie  he  was  in  the  act  of  eating  when  he  fell  fast 
asleep,  and  slowly  obeyed  his  master's  orders, 
looking  intently  upon  the  remains  of  the  feast  as  he 
removed  the  plates  and  stowed  them  in  the  ham- 
per. At  last  Mr.  Wardle  and  his  party  mounted 
the  coach  and  prepared  to  drive  off. 

"Now  mind,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
Mr.  Pickwick,  **we  expect  to  see  you  all  to-morrow. 
You  have  the  address?" 

"Manor  Farm,  Dingley  Dell,"  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, consulting  his  pocket-book. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "You 
must  come  for  at  least  a  week.  If  you  are  travel- 
ing to  get  country  life,  come  to  me  and  I  will  give 
you  plenty  of  it.  Joe!  Drat  that  boy,  he's  gone 
to  sleep  again.  Help  put  in  the  horses."  The 
horses  were  put  in  and  the  driver  mounted  and  the 
boy  clambered  up  by  his  side.  The  farewells  were 
exchanged  and  the  carriage  rolled  off.  As  the 
Pickwickians  turned  aroimd  to  take  a  last  glimpse 
of  it  the  setting  sun  cast  a  red  gold  upon  the  faces 
of  their  entertainers,  and  fell  upon  the  form  of  the 


MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE       237 

fat  boy.  His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  bosom,  and 
he  slumbered  again. 

After  some  amusing  difficulties,  which  we  have 
not  space  to  describe  here,  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his 
friends  arrived  safely  at  the  country  home  of  Mr. 
Wardle.     The  time  passed  very  pleasantly. 

One  day  some  of  the  men  decided  upon  a  shoot- 
ing trip,  and  Mr.  Wardle,  to  maintain  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  sport,  did  not  admit  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing about  guns.  Mr.  Pickwick,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, seeing  Mr.  Wardle  carrying  a  gun,  asked  what 
they  were  going  to  do. 

"Why,  your  friend  and  I  are  going  out  rook 
shooting.  He's  a  very  good  shot,  isn't  he?"  said 
Mr.  Wardle. 

**I  have  heard  him  say  he's  a  capital  one," 
replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  ''but  I  never  saw  him  aim  at 
anything." 

"Well,"  said  the  host,  "I  wish  Mr.  Tupman 
would  join  us.  Joe!  Joe!"  The  fat  boy  who, 
under  the  exciting  influences  of  the  morning,  did 
not  appear  to  be  more  than  three  parts  and  a 
fraction  asleep,  emerged  from  the  house.  "Go 
up  and  call  Mr.  Tupman,  and  tell  him  he  will  find 
us  waiting."  At  last  the  party  started,  Mr.  Tup- 
man having  joined  them.  Some  boys,  who  were 
with  them,  discovered  a  tree  with  a  nest  in  one  of 


238  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

the  branches,  and  when  all  was  ready  Mr.  Wardle 
was  persuaded  to  shoot  first.  The  boys  shouted, 
and  shook  a  branch  with  a  nest  on  it,  and  a  half-a- 
dozen  young  rooks,  in  violent  conversation,  flew 
out  to  ask  what  the  matter  was.  Mr.  Wardle 
leveled  his  gun  and  fired;  down  fell  one  and  off 
flew  the  others. 

*Tick  him  up,  Joe,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
There  was  a  smile  upon  the  youth's  face  as  he 
advanced,  for  an  indistinct  vision  of  rook  pie 
floated  through  his  imagination.  He  laughed  as 
he  retired  with  the  bird.     It  was  a  plump  one. 

"Now,  Mr.  Winkle,"  said  the  host,  reloading 
his  own  gion,  "fire  away."  Mr.  Winkle  advanced 
and  raised  his  gun.  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  friends 
crouched  involuntarily  to  escape  damage  from 
the  heavy  fall  of  birds  which  they  felt  quite  cer- 
tain would  be  caused  by  their  friend ' s  skill .  There 
was  a  solemn  pause,  a  shout,  a  flapping  of  wings. 

Mr.  Winkle  closed  his  eyes  and  fired ;  there  was 
a  scream  from  an  individual,  not  a  rook.  Mr. 
Tupman  had  saved  the  lives  of  innumerable  birds 
by  receiving  a  portion  of  the  charge  in  his  left  arm. 
Though  it  was  a  very  slight  wound,  Mr.  Tupman 
made  a  great  fuss  about  it  and  everyone  was 
horror-stricken.  He  was  partly  carried  to  the 
house.     The  unmarried  aunt  uttered  a  piercing 


MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE      239 

scream,  burst  into  an  hysterical  laugh  and  fell 
backwards  into  the  arms  of  her  nieces.  She 
recovered,  screamed  again,  laughed  again  and 
fainted  again. 

"Calm  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Tupman,  affected 
almost  to  tears  by  this  expression  of  sympathy. 
"Dear,  dear  Madam,  calm  yourself." 

"You  are  not  dead?"  exclaimed  the  hysterical 
lady.     "Say  you  are  not  dead !" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Rachel."  said  Mr.  Winkle. 
"What  the  mischief  is  the  use  of  his  saying  he 
isn't  dead?" 

"No!  No!  I  am  not,"  said  Mr.  Tupman.  "I 
require  no  assistance  but  yours.  Let  me  lean  on 
your  arm,"  he  added  in  a  whisper.  Miss  Rachel 
advanced  and  offered  her  arm.  They  turned  into 
the  breakfast  parlor.  ]\Ir.  Tupman  gently  pressed 
her  hands  to  his  lips  and  sunk  upon  the  sofa. 
Presently  the  others  left  him  to  her  tender  mercies. 
That  afternoon  Mr.  Tupman,  much  affected  by  the 
extreme  tenderness  of  Miss  Rachel,  suggested 
that  as  he  was  feeling  much  better  they  take  a 
short  stroll  in  the  garden.  There  was  a  bower  at 
the  farther  end,  all  honeysuckles  and  creeping 
plants,  and  somehow  they  tmconsciously  wan- 
dered in  its  direction  and  sat  down  on  a  bench 
within. 


24©  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Miss  Wardle,"  said  Mr.  Tupman,  "you  are  an 
angel."  Miss  Rachel  blushed  very  becomingly. 
Much  more  conversation  of  this  nature  followed 
until  finally  Mr.  Tupman  proceeded  to  do  what  his 
enthusiastic  emotions  prompted  and  what  were, 
(for  all  we  know,  for  we  are  but  little  acquainted 
with  such  matters)  w^hat  people  in  such  circum- 
stances always  do.  She  started,  and  he,  throwing 
his  arms  around  her  neck  imprinted  upon  her  lips 
numerous  kisses,  which,  after  a  proper  show  of 
struggling  and  resistance,  she  received  so  passively 
that  there  is  no  telling  how  many  more  Mr.  Tup- 
man might  have  bestowed  if  the  lady  had  not 
given  a  very  unaffected  start  and  exclaimed: 
"Mr.  Tupman,  we  are  observed!  We  are  discov- 
ered!" 

Mr.  Tupman  looked  around.  There  was  the 
fat  boy  perfectly  motionless,  with  his  large,  cir- 
cular eyes  staring  into  the  arbor,  but  without  the 
slightest  expression  on  his  face.  Mr.  Tupman 
gazed  at  the  fat  boy  and  the  fat  boy  stared  at  him, 
but  the  longer  Mr.  Tupman  observed  the  utter 
vacancy  of  the  fat  boy's  face,  the  more  convinced 
he  became  that  he  either  did  not  know  or  did  not 
understand  an3rthing  that  had  been  happening. 
Under  this  impression  he  said  with  great  fierceness : 
**What  do  you  want  here?" 


%¥^ 


'JMr.  Tupman,  We  Are  Observed!' 


Page  24-^ 


MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE       241 

"Supper  is  ready,  sir,"  was  the  prompt 
reply. 

"Have  you  just  come  here?"  inquired  Mr.  Tup- 
man,  with  a  piercing  look. 

"Just,"  replied  the  fat  boy.  Mr.  Tupman 
looked  at  him  very  hard  again  but  there  was  not 
a  wink  of  his  eye  or  a  movement  in  his  face.  Mr. 
Tupman  took  the  arm  of  the  spinster  aunt  and 
walked  toward  the  house.  The  fat  boy  followed 
behind. 

"He  knows  nothing  of  what  has  happened," 
he  whispered. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  spinster,  aunt.  There  was 
a  sound  behind  them  as  of  an  imperfectly  sup- 
pressed chuckle.  Mr.  Tupman  turned  sharply 
around. 

No,  it  could  not  have  been  the  fat  boy.  There 
was  not  a  gleam  of  mirth  or  anything  but  feeding 
in  his  whole  visage.  "He  must  have  been  fast 
asleep,"  whispered  Mr.  Tupman. 

"I  have  not  the  least  doubt  of  it,"  repHed  Miss 
Rachel,  and  they  both  laughed  heartily.  Mr. 
Tupman  was  wrong.  The  fat  boy  for  once  had 
not  been  fast  asleep.  He  was  awake,  wide  awake 
to  ever3rthing  that  had  happened. 

The  day  following,  Joe  saw  his  mistress,  Mr. 
Wardle's  aged  mother,  sitting  in  the  arbor.     With- 

16 


242  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

out  saying  a  word  he  walked  up  to  her,  stood  per- 
fectly still  and  said  nothing. 

The  old  lady  was  easily  frightened;  most  old 
ladies  are,  and  her  first  impression  was  that  Joe 
was  about  to  do  her  some  bodily  harm  with  a  view 
of  stealing  what  money  she  might  have  with  her. 
She  therefore  watched  his  motions,  or  rather  lack 
of  motions,  with  feelings  of  intense  terror,  which 
were  in  no  degree  lessened  by  his  finally  coming 
close  to  her  and  shouting  in  her  ear,  for  she  was 
very  deaf,     ' '  Missus ! ' ' 

*'Well,  Joe,"  said  the  trembling  old  lady,  '1 
am  sure  I  have  been  a  good  mistress  to  you." 
He  nodded.  "You  have  always  been  treated  very 
kindly?"  He  nodded.  **You  have  never  had 
too  much  to  do?"  He  nodded.  "You  have 
always  had  enough  to  eat?"  This  last  was  an 
appeal  to  the  fat  boy's  most  sensitive  feelings. 
He  seemed  touched  as  he  replied,  "I  know  I  has." 

"Then  what  do  you  want  to  do  now?" 

"I  wants  to  make  yo'  flesh  creep,"  replied  the 
boy.  This  sounded  like  a  very  blood-thirsty 
method  of  showing  one's  gratitude  and  so  the  old 
lady  was  as  much  frightened  as  before.  "What 
do  you  think  I  saw  in  this  very  arbor  last  night?" 
inquired  the  boy. 

"Mercies,    what?"    screamed    the    old    lady, 


MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE      243 

alarmed  at  the  mysterious  manner  of  the  corpulent 
youth. 

"A  strange  gentleman  as  had  his  arm  around 
her,  a  kissin*  and  huggin'." 

"Who,  Joe,  who?  None  of  the  servants,  I 
hope?" 

"Worser  than  that,"  roared  the  fat  boy  in  the 
old  lady's  ear. 

"None  of  my  granddaughters." 

"Worser  than  that,"  said  Joe. 

"Worse  than  that?"  said  the  old  lady,  who  had 
thought  this  the  extreme  limit.  "Who  was  it, 
Joe?     I  insist  upon  knowing!" 

The  fat  boy  looked  cautiously  about  and  having 
finished  his  survey  shouted  in  the  old  lady's  ear, 
"Miss  Rachel!" 

"What?"  said  the  old  lady  in  a  shrill  tone, 
"speak  louder!" 

"Miss  Rachel,"  roared  the  fat  boy. 

"My  daughter?"  The  succession  of  nods  which 
the  fat  boy  gave  by  way  of  assent  could  not  be 
doubted.  "And  she  allowed  him?"  exclaimed  the 
old  lady.  A  grin  stole  over  the  fat  boy's  features 
as  he  said,  "I  see  her  a  kissin'  of  him  agin !"  Joe's 
voice  of  necessity  had  been  so  loud  that  another 
party  in  the  garden  could  not  help  hearing  the 
entire  conversation.     If  they  could  have  seen  the 


^44  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

expression  of  the  old  lady's  face  at  this  time  it  is 
probable  that  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter  would 
have  betrayed  them.  Fragments  of  angry  sen- 
tences drifted  to  them  through  the  leaves,  such  as 
' 'Without  my  permission !"  ' 'At  her  time  of  life !' ' 
*' Might  have  waited  until  I  was  dead,"  etc.  Then 
they  heard  the  heels  of  the  fat  boy's  foot  crunching 
the  gravel  as  he  retired  and  left  the  old  lady  alone. 

Mr.  Tupman  would  probably  have  found  him- 
self in  considerable  trouble  if  one  of  his  friends, 
who  had  overheard  the  conversation  had  not  told 
Mrs.  Wardle  that  perhaps  Joe  had  dreamed  the 
entire  incident,  which  did  not  seem  altogether 
improbable.  She  watched  Mr.  Tupman  at  supper 
that  evening,  but  this  gentleman,  having  been 
warned,  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  Miss  Rachel, 
and  the  old  lady  was  finally  persuaded  that  it  was 
all  a  mistake. 

Finally  the  visit  of  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  friends 
came  to  an  end,  and  it  was  several  months  before 
they  again  partook  of  Mr.  Wardle 's  hospitality. 
The  Pickwickians  had  arrived  at  the  Inn  near  Mr. 
Wardle 's  place  for  dinner  before  completing  the 
rest  of  their  journey  to  Dingley  Dell.  Mr.  Pick- 
wick had  brought  with  him  several  barrels  of 
oysters  and  some  special  wine  as  a  gift  to  his  host, 
and  he  stood  examining  his  packages  to  see  that 


MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE       245 

they  had  all  arrived  when  he  felt  himself  gently 
pulled  by  the  skirts  of  his  coat.  Looking  around 
he  discovered  that  the  individual  who  used  this 
means  of  drawing  his  attention  was  no  other 
than  Mr.  Wardle's  favorite  page,  the  fat 
boy. 

*'Aha!"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"Ah!"  said  the  fat  boy,  and  as  he  said  it  he 
glanced  from  the  wine  to  the  oysters  and  chuckled 
joyously.     He  was  fatter  than  ever. 

''Well,  you  look  rosy  enough  my  young  friend," 
said  Mr.   Pickwick. 

"I  have  been  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire,"  replied 
the  fat  boy,  who  had  indeed  heated  himself  to  the 
color  of  a  new  chimney  pot  in  the  course  of  an 
hour's  nap.  "Master  sent  me  over  with  the  cart 
to  carry  your  luggage  over  to  the  house."  Mr. 
Pickwick  called  his  man,  Sam  Weller,  to  him  and 
said,  "Help  Mr.  Wardle's  ser\^ant  to  put  the  pack- 
ages into  the  cart  and  then  ride  on  with  him.  We 
prefer  to  walk."  Having  given  this  direction  Mr. 
Pickwick  and  his  three  friends  walked  briskly 
away,  leaving  Mr.  Weller  and  the  fat  boy  face  to 
face  for  the  first  time.  Sam  looked  at  the  fat  boy 
with  great  astonishment  but  without  saying  a 
word,  and  began  to  put  the  things  rapidly  upon  the 
cart  while  Joe  stood  calmly  by  and  seemed  to 


246  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

think  it  a  very  interesting  sort  of  thing  to  see  Mr. 
Weller  working  by  himself. 

"There,"  said  Sam,  "everything  packed  at  last. 
There  they  are." 

"Yes,"  said  the  fat  boy  in  a  very  satisfied  tone, 
"there  they  are." 

"Well,  young  twenty  stone, "  said  Sam.  " YouVe 
a  nice  specimen,  you  are." 

"Thankee,"  said  the  fat  boy. 

"You  ain't  got  nothing  on  your  mind  as  makes 
you  fret  yourself,  have  you?"  inquired  Sam. 

"Not  as  I  knows  of,"  replied  the  boy. 

"I  should  rather  have  thought,  to  look  at  you, 
that  you  was  a  laborin*  under  a  disappointed  love 
affair  with  some  young  woman,"  said  Sam. 
"Veil,  young  boa-constrictor,"  said  Sam,  "I'm 
glad  to  hear  it.     Do  you  ever  drink  anythin'?" 

"I  likes  eatin'  better,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Ah!"  said  Sam.  "I  should  ha'  'sposed  that, 
but  I  'spose  you  were  never  cold  with  all  them 
elastic  fixtures?" 

"Was  sometimes,"  replied  the  boy,  "and  I 
likes  a  drop  of  something  that's  good." 

"Ah!  you  do,  do  you,"  said  Sam,  "come  this 
way."  Then  after  a  short  interruption  they  got 
into  the  cart. 

"You  can  drive,  can  you?"  said  the  fat  boy. 


MR.  WARDLE'S  SERVANT  JOE      247 

*'I  should  rather  think  so,"  repHed  Sam. 

*'Well  then,"  said  the  fat  boy,  putting  the  reins 
in  his  hands  and  pointing  up  a  lane,  "it's  as 
straight  as  you  can  drive.  You  can't  miss  it." 
With  these  words  the  fat  boy  laid  himself  affec- 
tionately down  by  the  side  of  the  provisions  and 
placing  an  oyster  barrel  under  his  head  for  a 
pillow,  fell  asleep  instantly. 

"Veil,"  said  Sam,  "of  all  the  boys  ever  I  set 
my  eyes  on — wake  up  young  dropsy."  But  as 
young  dropsy  could  not  be  awakened,  Sam  Weller 
set  himself  down  in  front  of  the  cart,  started  the 
old  horse  with  a  jerk  of  the  rein,  and  jogged 
steadily  on  toward  Manor  Farm. 


X.III 

A  BRAVE  AND  HONEST  BOY,  OLIVER 
TWIST. 

LITTLE  Oliver  Twist  was  an  orphan.  He 
never  saw  his  mother  or  his  father.  He 
was  bom  at  the  workhouse,  the  home  for 
paupers,  where  his  poor  heart-broken  mother  had 
been  taken  just  a  short  time  before  baby  OHver 
came ;  and,  the  very  night  he  was  bom,  she  was  so 
sick  and  weak  she  said:  "Let  me  see  my  child  and 
then  I  will  die."  The  old  nurse  said:  "Nonsense, 
my  dear,  you  must  not  think  of  dying,  you  have 
something  now  to  live  for."  The  good  kind  doctor 
said  she  must  be  very  brave  and  she  might  get  well. 
They  brought  her  little  baby  boy  to  her,  and  she 
hugged  him  in  her  weak  arms  and  she  kissed  him  on 
the  brow  many  times  and  cuddled  him  up  as  close 
as  her  feeble  arms  could  hold  him ;  and  then  she 
looked  at  him  long  and  steadily,  and  a  sweet 
smile  came  over  her  face  and  a  bright  light  came 
into  her  eyes,  and  before  the  smile  could  pass 
from  her  lips  she  died. 

The  old  nurse  wept  as  she  took  the  little  baby 
from  its  dead  mother's  arms;  and  the  good  doc- 

(248) 


OLIVER  TWIST  249 

tor  had  to  wipe  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  it  was  so 
very,  very  sad. 

After  wrapping  the  baby  in  a  blanket  and  laying 
him  in  a  warm  place,  the  old  nurse  straightened 
out  the  limbs  of  the  young  mother  and  folded  her 
hands  on  her  breast;  and,  spreading  a  white 
sheet  over  her  still  form,  she  called  the  doctor 
to  look  at  her — for  the  nurse  and  the  doctor  were 
all  who  were  there.  The  same  sweet  smile  was 
on  her  face,  and  the  doctor  said  as  he  looked  upon 
her:  'Toor,  poor  girl,  she  is  so  beautiful  and  so 
young!  What  strange  fate  has  brought  her  to 
this  poor  place?  Nurse,  take  good  care  of  the 
baby,  for  his  mother  must  have  been,  at  one  time, 
a  kind  and  gentle  woman." 

The  next  day  they  took  the  unknown  woman 
out  to  the  potter's  field  and  buried  her;  and,  for 
nine  months,  the  old  nurse  at  the  workhouse 
took  care  of  the  baby;  though,  it  is  sad  to  say, 
this  old  woman,  kind-hearted  though  she  was, 
was  at  the  same  time  so  fond  of  gin  that  she 
often  took  the  money,  which  ought  to  have 
bought  milk  for  the  baby,  to  buy  drink  for 
herself. 

Nobody  knew  what  the  young  mother*s  name 
was,  and  so  this  baby  had  no  name,  until,  at  last, 
Mr.  Bumble,  who  was  one  of  the  parish  officers 


250  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

who  looked  after  the  paupers,  came  and  named 
him  Oliver  Twist. 

When  Httle  Oliver  was  nine  months  old  they 
took  him  away  from  the  workhouse  and  carried 
him  to  the  'Toor  Farm,"  where  there  were 
twenty-five  or  thirty  other  poor  children  who  had 
no  parents.  A  woman  by  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Mann  had  charge  of  this  cottage.  The  parish 
gave  her  an  allowance  of  enough  money  to  keep 
the  children  in  plenty  of  food  and  clothing;  but 
she  starved  the  little  ones  to  keep  the  money 
for  herself,  so  that  many  of  them  died  and  others 
came  to  take  their  places.  But  young  Oliver 
was  a  tough  little  fellow,  and,  while  he  looked  very 
pale  and  thin,  he  was,  otherwise,  healthy  and 
hung  on  to  his  life. 

Mrs.  Mann  was  also  very  cruel  to  the  children. 
She  would  scold  and  beat  them  and  shut  them  up 
in  the  cellar  and  treat  them  meanly  in  many  ways 
when  no  visitors  were  there.  But,  when  any  of 
the  men  who  had  control  or  visitors  came  around, 
she  would  smile  and  call  the  children  "dear,"  and 
all  sorts  of  pet  names.  She  told  them  if  any  of 
them  should  tell  on  her  she  would  beat  them ;  and, 
furthermore,  that  they  should  tell  visitors  that 
she  was  very  kind  and  good  to  them  and  that  they 
loved  her  very  much. 


OLIVER  TWIST  251 

Mr.  Bumble  was  a  very  mean  man,  too,  as  we 
shall  see.  They  called  him  the  Beadle,  which 
means  he  was  a  sort  of  sheriff  or  policeman ;  and 
he  was  supposed  to  look  after  the  people  at  the 
workhouse  and  at  the  poor  farm  and  to  wait  on 
the  directors  who  had  charge  of  these  places. 
He  had  the  right  to  punish  the  boys  if  they  did 
not  mind,  and  they  were  all  afraid  of  him. 

Oliver  remained  at  the  cottage  on  the  poor 
farm  until  he  was  nine  years  old,  though  he  was 
a  pale  little  fellow  and  did  not  look  to  be  over 
seven. 

On  the  morning  of  his  birthday,  Mrs.  Mann  had 
given  Oliver  and  two  other  boys  a  bad  whipping 
and  put  them  down  in  a  dark  coal-cellar.  Pres- 
ently she  saw  Mr.  Bumble  coming  and  she  told 
her  servant  to  take  the  boys  out  and  wash  them 
quick,  for  she  did  not  let  ^Ir.  Bumble  know  she 
ever  punished  them,  and  was  fearful  he  might  hear 
them  crying  in  the  dark,  damp  place.  Mrs. 
Mann  talked  very  nicely  to  Mr.  Bumble  and  made 
him  a  * 'toddy"  (a  glass^  of  strong  liquor)  and  kept 
him  busy  with  her  flattering  and  kindness  until 
she  knew  the  boys  were  washed. 

Mr.  Bumble  told  her  Oliver  Twist  was  nine 
years  old  that  day,  and  the  Board  (which  meant 
the  men  in  charge)  had  decided  they  must  take 


252  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

him  away  from  the  farm  and  carry  him  back  to  the 
workhouse.  Mrs.  Mann  pretended  to  be  very 
sorry,  and  she  went  out  and  brought  OHver  in, 
telHng  him  on  the  way  that  he  must  appear  very 
sorry  to  leave  her,  othen^dse  she  would  beat  him. 
So  when  Oliver  was  asked  if  he  wanted  to  go,  he 
said  he  was  sorry  to  leave  there.  This  was  not  a 
falsehood,  for,  miserable  as  the  place  was,  he 
dearly  loved  his  little  companions.  They  were 
all  the  people  he  knew;  and  he  did  feel  sad,  and 
really  wept  with  sorrow  as  he  told  them  good-by 
and  was  led  by  Mr.  Bumble  back  to  the  work- 
house, where  he  was  bom  and  where  his  mother 
died  nine  years  ago  that  very  day. 

When  he  got  back  there  he  found  the  old  nurse 
who  remembered  his  mother,  and  she  told  him 
she  was  a  beautiful  sweet  woman  and  how  she  had 
kissed  him  and  held  him  in  her  arms  when  she 
died.  Night  after  night  little  Oliver  dreamed 
about  his  beautiful  mother,  and  she  seemed 
sometimes  to  stand  by  his  bed  and  to  look  down 
upon  him  with  the  same  beautiful  eyes  and  the 
same  sweet  smile  of  which  the  nurse  told  him. 
Every  time  he  had  the  chance  he  asked  questions 
about  her,  but  the  nurse  could  not  tell  him  any- 
thing more.     She  did  not  even  know  her  name. 

Oliver  had  been  at  the  workhouse  only  a  very 


OLIVER  TWIST  253 

short  time  when  Mr.  Bumble  came  in  and  told 
him  he  must  appear  before  the  Board  at  once. 
Now  Oliver  was  puzzled  at  this.     He  thought 
a  board  was  a  piece  of  flat  wood,  and  he  could  not 
imagine  why  he  was  to  appear  before  that.     But 
he  was  too  much  afraid  of  Mr.  Bumble  to  ask  any 
questions.     This    gentleman    had    treated    him 
roughly  in  bringing  him  to  the  workhouse;  and, 
now,   when  he  looked  a  little  puzzled— for  his 
expressive   face   always    told    what    was    in   his 
honest    little    heart— Mr.    Bumble    gave    him    a 
sharp  crack  on  the  head  with  his  cane  and  another 
rap  over  the  back  and  told  him  to  wake  up  and 
not  look  so  sleepy,  and  to  mind  to  be  polite  when 
he  went  before  the  Board.     Oliver  could  not  help 
tears  coming  into  his  eyes  as  he  was  pushed  along, 
and  Mr.   Bumble  gave  him  another  sharp  rap! 
telling  him  to  hush,  and  ushered  him  into  a  room 
where  several  stem-looking  gentlemen  sat  at  a 
long  table.     One  of  them,  in  a  white  waistcoat, 
was    particularly    hard-looking.     ''Bow    to    the 
Board,"    said    Mr.    Bumble    to    OHver.     Oliver 
looked  about  for  a  board,  and,  seeing  none,  he 
bowed  to  the  table,  because  it  looked  more  'like 
a  board  than  anything  else.     The  men  laughed, 
and  the  man  in  the  white  waistcoat  said:     "The 
boy  is  a  fool.     I  thought  he  was."     After  other 


2  54  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

ugly  remarks,  they  told  Oliver  he  was  an  orphan 
and  they  had  supported  him  all  his  life.  He  ought 
to  be  very  thankful.  (And  he  was,  when  he  re- 
membered how  many  had  been  starved  to  death.) 
♦'Now,"  they  said,  ''you  are  nine  years  old,  and 
we  must  put  you  out  to  learn  a  trade."  They 
told  him  he  should  begin  the  next  morning  at  six 
o'clock  to  pick  oakum,  and  work  at  that  until 
they  could  get  him  a  place. 

Oliver  was  faithful  at  his  work,  in  which  several 
other  boys  assisted,  but  oh!  so  hungry  they 
got,  for  they  were  given  but  one  little  bowl  of 
gruel  at  a  meal— hardly  enough  for  a  kitten.  So 
one  day  the  boys  said  they  must  ask  for  more; 
and  they  ''drew  straws"  to  see  who  should  venture 
to  do  so.  It  fell  to  Oliver's  lot  to  do  it,  and  the 
next  meal,  when  they  had  emptied  their  bowls, 
Oliver  walked  up  to  the  man  who  helped  them  and 
said  very  politely,  "Please,  sir,  may  I  not  have 
some  more?  I  am  very  hungry."  This  made 
the  man  so  angry  that  he  hit  OHver  over  the  head 
with  his  ladle  and  called  for  Mr.  Bumble.  He 
came,  and  when  told  that  Oliver  had  "asked  for 
more,"  he  grabbed  him  by  the  collar  and  took 
him  before  the  Board  and  made  the  complaint 
that  he  had  been  very  naughty  and  rebellious, 
telling  the  circumstance  in  an  unfair  and  untruth- 


OLIVER  TWIST  255 

ful  way.  The  Board  was  angry  at  Oliver,  and  the 
man  in  the  white  waistcoat  told  them  again  as 
he  had  said  before.  "This  boy  will  be  hung  some- 
time. We  must  get  rid  of  him  at  once."  So 
they  offered  five  pounds,  or  twenty-five  dollars 
to  anyone  who  would  take  him. 

The  first  man  who  came  was  a  very  mean  chim- 
ney-sweeper, who  had  almost  killed  other  boys  with 
his  vile  treatment.  The  Board  agreed  to  let  him 
have  Oliver;  but,  when  they  took  him  before  the 
magistrates,  Oliver  fell  on  his  knees  and  begged 
them  not  to  let  that  man  have  him,  and  they 
would  not.  So  Oliver  was  taken  back  to  the  work- 
house. 

The  next  man  who  came  was  Mr.  Sowerberry, 
an  undertaker.  He  was  a  very  good  man,  and 
the  magistrates  let  him  take  Oliver  along.  But  he 
had  a  very  cross,  stingy  wife,  and  a  mean  serv^ant- 
girl  by  the  name  of  Charlotte,  and  a  big  overbearing 
boy  by  the  name  of  Noah  Claypole,  whom  he  had 
taken  to  raise.  Oliver  thought  he  would  like  Mr. 
Sowerberry  well  enough,  but  his  heart  fell  when 
"the  Mrs."  met  him  and  called  him  ''boy"  and  a 
"measly-looking  little  pauper,"  and  gave  him  for 
supper  the  scraps  she  had  put  for  the  dog.  But 
this  was  so  much  better  than  he  got  at  the  work- 
house, he  would  not  complain  about  the  food; 


256  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

and  he  hoped,  by  faithful  work,  to  win  kind  treat- 
ment. 

They  made  him  sleep  by  himself  in  the  shop 
among  the  coffins,  and  he  was  very  much  fright- 
ened; but  he  would  rather  sleep  there  than  with 
the  terrible  boy,  Noah.  The  first  night  he 
dreamed  of  his  beautiful  mother,  and  thought 
again  he  could  see  her  sitting  among  those  black, 
fearful  coffins,  with  the  same  sweet  smile  upon 
her  face.  He  was  awakened  the  next  morning 
by  Noah,  who  told  him  he  had  to  obey  him,  and 
he'd  better  lookout  or  he'd  wear  the  life  out  of 
him.  Noah  kicked  and  cuffed  Oliver  several 
times,  but  the  poor  boy  was  too  much  used  to  that 
to  resent  it,  and  determined  to  do  his  work  well. 

Mr.  Sowerberry  found  Oliver  so  good,  sensible, 
and  polite  that  he  made  him  his  assistant  and  took 
him  to  all  the  funerals,  and  occasionally  gave  him 
a  penny.  Oliver  went  into  fine  houses  and  saw 
people  and  sights  he  had  never  dreamed  of  before. 
Mr.  Sowerberry  had  told  him  he  might  some  day 
be  an  undertaker  himself ;  and  Oliver  worked  hard 
to  please  his  master,  though  Noah  and  Mrs. 
Sowerberry  and  Charlotte  grew  more  unkind  to 
him  all  the  time,  because  *'he  was  put  forward," 
they  said,  "and  Noah  was  kept  back."  This,  of 
course,  made  Noah  meaner  than  ever  to  Oliver — 


OLIVER  TWIST  257 

determined  to  endure  it  all  rather  than  complain, 
and  try  to  win  them  over  after  while  by  being 
kind.  He  could  have  borne  any  insult  to  himself, 
but  Noah  tried  the  little  fellow  too  far  when  he 
attacked  the  name  of  Oliver's  mother,  and  it 
brought  serious  trouble,  as  we  shall  see. 

One  day,  Oliver  and  Noah  had  descended  into 
the  kitchen  at  the  usual  dinner-hour,  when, 
Charlotte  being  called  out  of  the  way,  there  came 
a  few  minutes  of  time,  which  Noah  Claypole,  being 
hungry  and  vicious,  considered  he  could  not 
possibly  devote  to  a  worthier  purpose  than 
aggravating  and  tantalizing  young  Oliver 
Twist. 

Intent  upon  this  innocent  amusement,  Noah 
put  his  feet  on  the  tablecloth ;  and  pulled  Oliver's 
hair;  and  twitched  his  ears;  and  expressed  his 
opinion  that  he  was  a  "sneak;"  and  furthermore 
announced  his  intention  of  coming  to  see  him 
hanged,  whenever  that  desirable  event  should 
take  place ;  and  entered  upon  various  other  topics 
of  petty  annoyance,  like  a  malicious  and  ill- 
conditioned  charity-boy  as  he  was.  But,  none 
of  these  taunts  producing  the  desired  effect  of 
making  Oliver  cry,  Noah  began  to  talk  about  his 
mother. 

"Work'us,"  said  Noah,  "how's  your  mother?" 

17 


258  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

Noah  had  given  OHver  this  name  because  he  had 
come  from  the  workhouse. 

* 'She's  dead,"  repHed  Oliver;  "don't  you  say 
anything  about  her  to  me!" 

OHver's  color  rose  as  he  said  this ;  he  breathed 
quickly;  and  there  was  a  curious  working  of  the 
mouth  and  nostrils,  which  Noah  thought  must 
be  the  immediate  precursor  of  a  violent  fit  of 
crying.  Under  this  impression  he  returned  to 
the  charge. 

''What  did  she  die  of,  Work'us?"  said  Noah. 

"Of  a  broken-heart,  some  of  our  old  nurses  told 
me,"  replied  Oliver:  more  as  if  he  were  talking  to 
himself  than  answering  Noah.  "I  think  I  know 
what  it  must  be  to  die  of  that !" 

"Tol  de  rol  lol  lol,  right  fol  lairy,  Work'us," 
said  Noah,  as  a  tear  rolled  down  Oliver's  cheek. 
"What's  set  you  a  sniveling  now?" 

"Not  you,"  replied  Oliver,  hastily  brushing  the 
tear  away.     "Don't  think  it." 

"Oh,  not  me,  eh?"  sneered  Noah. 

"No,    not    you,"    replied    Oliver,    sharply. 

"There,  that's  enough.  Don't  say  anything 
more  to  me  about  her;  you'd  better  not!" 

"Better  not!"  exclaimed  Noah.  "Well!  Better 
not !  Work'us,  don't  be  impudent.  Yotir  mother, 
too!     She  was  a  nice  'un,  she  was.     Oh,  Lor'!" 


OLIVER  TWIST  259 

And  here  Noah  nodded  his  head  expressively  and 
curled  his  small  red  nose. 

"Yer  know,  Work'us,"  continued  Noah,  em- 
boldened by  Oliver's  silence,  and  speaking  in  a 
jeering  tone  of  affected  pity.  "Yer  know,  Work'- 
us,  it  can't  be  helped  now;  and  of  course  yer 
couldn't  help  it  then.  But  yer  must  know, 
Work'us,  yer  mother  was  a  regular-down  bad 
'un." 

''What  did  you  say?"  inquired  Oliver,  looking 
up  very  quickly. 

"A  regular  right-down  bad'un,  Work'us,"  re- 
plied Noah,  coolly.  ''And  it's  a  great  deal  better, 
Work'us,  that  she  died  when  she  did,  or  else  she'd 
have  been  hard  laboring  in  the  jail,  or  sent  out  of 
the  country,  or  hung;  which  is  more  likely  than 
either,  isn't  it?" 

Crimson  with  fury,  Oliver  started  up;  over- 
threw the  chair  and  table;  seized  Noah  by  the 
throat ;  shook  him,  in  the  violence  of  his  rage,  till 
his  teeth  chattered  in  his  head ;  and,  collecting  his 
whole  force  into  one  heavy  blow,  felled  him  to  the 
ground. 

A  minute  ago,  the  boy  had  looked  the  quiet, 
mild,  dejected  creature  that  harsh  treatment  had 
made  him.  But  his  spirit  was  roused  at  last; 
the  cruel  insult  to  his  dead  mother  had  set  his 


26o  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

blood  on  fire.  His  breast  heaved;  his  form  was 
erect ;  his  eye  bright  and  vivid ;  his  whole  person 
changed,  as  he  stood  glaring  over  the  cowardly 
tormentor  who  now  lay  crouching  at  his  feet; 
and  defied  him  with  an  energy  he  had  never  known 
before. 

"He'll  murder  me!"  blubbered  Noah.  "Char- 
lotte! missis!  Here's  the  new  boy  a-murdering 
of  me !  Help !  help !  Oliver's  gone  mad !  Char 
— lotte!" 

Noah's  shouts  were  responded  to  by  a  loud 
scream  from  Charlotte  and  a  louder  from  Mrs. 
Sowerberry;  the  former  of  whom  rushed  into  the 
kitchen  by  a  side-door,  while  the  latter  paused  on 
the  staircase  till  she  was  quite  certain  that  it  was 
safe  to  come  farther  down. 

"Oh,  you  little  wretch!"  screamed  Charlotte, 
seizing  Oliver  with  her  utmost  force,  which  was 
about  equal  to  that  of  a  moderately  strong  man 
in  particularly  good  training.  "Oh,  you  little 
un-grate-ful,  mur-de-rous,  hor-rid  villain!"  And 
between  every  syllable  Charlotte  gave  Oliver  a 
blow  with  all  her  might. 

Charlotte's  fist  was  by  no  means  a  light  one; 
and  Mrs.  Sowerberry  plunged  into  the  kitchen  and 
assisted  to  hold  him  with  one  hand,  while  she 
scratched  his  face  with  the  other.     In  this  favor- 


OLIVER  TWIST  261 

able  position  of  affairs,  Noah  rose  from  the  ground 
and  pommeled  him  behind. 

When  they  were  all  wearied  out,  and  could  tear 
and  beat  no  longer,  they  dragged  Oliver,  strug- 
gling and  shouting,  but  nothing  daunted,  into  the 
dust-cellar,  and  there  locked  him  up.  This  being 
done,  Mrs.  Sowerberry  sunk  into  a  chair  and  burst 
into  tears. 

''Oh!  Charlotte,"  said  Mrs.  Sowerberry.  ''Oh! 
Charlotte,  what  a  mercy  we  have  not  all  been 
murdered  in  our  beds !" 

"Ah!  mercy  indeed,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply. 
"I  only  hope  this '11  teach  master  not  to  have  any 
more  of  these  dreadful  creatures,  that  are  born 
to  be  murderers  and  robbers  from  their  very 
cradle.  Poor  Noah!  he  was  all  but  killed,  ma'am, 
when  I  come  in." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Mrs.  Sowerberry,  looking 
piteously  on  the  charity-boy. 

"What's  to  be  done!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sower- 
berry. "Your  master's  not  at  home;  there's  not 
a  man  in  the  house,  and  he'll  kick  that  door  down 
in  ten  minutes."  Oliver's  vigorous  plunges 
against  the  door  did  seem  as  if  he  would  break  it. 

"Dear,  dear!  I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  said 
Charlotte,  "unless  we  send  for  the  poHce  officers." 

"Or  the  millingtary, "  suggested  Noah. 


262  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

*'No,  no,"  saici  Mrs.  Sowerberry:  bethinking 
herself  of  Oliver's  old  friend.  "Run  to  Mr. 
Bumble,  Noah,  and  tell  him  to  come  here  directly, 
and  not  to  lose  a  minute;  never  mind  your  cap! 
Make  haste!" 

Noah  set  off  with  all  his  might,  and  paused 
not  once  for  breath  until  he  reached  the  work- 
house gate. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy!"  said 
the  people  as  Noah  rushed  up. 

"Mr.  Bumble!  Mr.  Bumble!"  cried  Noah, 
with  well-pretended  alarm.  "Oh,  Mr.  Bumble, 
sir!     Oliver,  sir — Oliver  has — " 

"What?  What.^"  interposed  Mr.  Bumble,  with 
a  gleam  of  pleasure  in  his  steel -like  eyes.  "Not 
run  away;  he  hasn't  run  away,  has  he,  Noah?" 

"No,  sir,  no,  Not  run  away,  sir,  but  he's 
turned  wicious,"  replied  Noah.  "He  tried  to 
murder  me,  sir;  and  then  he  tried  to  murder 
Charlotte;  and  then  missis.  Oh!  what  dreadful 
pain  it  is!  Such  agony,  please,  sir!"  And  here 
Noah  writhed  and  twisted  his  body  into  an  ex- 
tensive variety  of  eel-like  positions,  by  which  the 
gentleman's  notice  was  very  soon  attracted; 
for  he  had  not  walked  three  paces,  when  he  turned 
angrily  round  and  inquired  what  that  young  cur 
was  howling  for. 


OLIVER  TWIST  26 


"It's  a  poor  boy  from  the  free-school,  sir," 
repHed  Mr.  Bumble,  "who  has  been  nearly  mur- 
dered— all  but  murdered,  sir — by  young  Twist." 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  the  gentleman  in  the 
white  waistcoat,  stopping  short.  "I  knew  it! 
I  felt  from  the  very  first  that  that  terrible  young 
savage  would  come  to  be  hung!" 

"He  has  likewise  attempted,  sir,  to  murder  the 
female  servant,"  said  Mr.  Bumble,  with  a  face  of 
ashy  paleness. 

"And  his  missis, "  interposed  Noah. 

"And  his  master,  too,  I  think  you  said,  Noah?" 
added  Mr.  Bumble. 

"No!  he's  out,  or  he  would  have  murdered 
him,"  replied  Noah.  "He  said  he  wanted 
to." 

"Ah!  Said  he  wanted  to,  did  he,  my  boy?" 
inquired  the  gentleman  in  the  white  waistcoat. 

"Yes,  sir.  And  please,  sir,"  replied  Noah, 
"missis  w^ants  to  know  whether  ]\Ir.  Bumble  can 
spare  time  to  step  up  there,  directly,  and  flog 
him — '  cause  master's  out." 

"Certainly,  my  boy;  certainly,"  said  the  gentle- 
man in  the  white  waistcoat,  smiling  benignly  and 
patting  Noah's  head,  which  was  about  three  inches 
higher  than  his  own.  "You're  a  good  boy — a 
very  good  boy.     Here's  a  penny  for  3^ou.     Bumble 


264  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

just  step  up  to  Sowerberry's  with  your  cane, 
and  see  what's  to  be  done.  Don't  spare  him, 
Bumble. 

**No,  I  will  not,  sir,"  replied  the  beadle  as  he 
hurried  away. 

Meantime,  Oliver  continued  to  kick,  with  un- 
diminished vigor,  at  the  cellar-door.  The  ac- 
counts of  his  ferocity,  as  related  by  Mrs.  Sower- 
berry  and  Charlotte,  were  of  so  startling  a  nature 
that  Mr.  Bumble  judged  it  prudent  to  parley 
before  opening  the  door.  With  this  view  he  gave 
a  kick  at  the  outside,  by  way  of  prelude;  and 
then,  putting  his  mouth  to  the  keyhole,  said,  in  a 
deep  and  impressive  tone : 

"Oliver!" 

*'Come,  you  let  me  out!"  replied  Oliver,  from 
the  inside. 

"Do  you  know  this  here  voice,  Oliver?"  said 
Mr.  Bumble. 

"Yes,"  replied  Oliver. 

"Ain't  you  afraid  of  it,  sir?  Ain't  you  a-trem- 
bling  while  I  speak,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Bumble. 

"No!"  replied  Oliver,  boldly. 

An  answer  so  different  from  the  one  he  had 
expected  to  hear,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving, 
staggered  Mr.  Bumble  not  a  little. 

"Oh,  you  know,  Mr.  Bumble,  he  must  be  mad," 


OLIVER  TWIST  265 

said  Mrs.  Sowerberry.  "No  boy  in  half  his  senses 
could  venture  to  speak  so  to  you." 

''It's  not  madness,  ma'am,"  replied  Mr.  Bum- 
ble, after  a  few  moments  of  deep  meditation. 
"It's  meat." 

"What?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sowerberry. 

"Meat,  ma'am,  meat,"  replied  Bumble,  with 
stem  emphasis.     "You've  overfed  him,  ma'am." 

"Dear,  dear!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Sowerberry, 
piously  raising  her  eyes  to  the  kitchen  ceiling; 
"this  comes  of  being  liberal!" 

The  liberality  of  Mrs.  Sowerberry  to  Oliver  had 
consisted  in  a  bestowal  upon  him  of  all  the  dirty 
odds  and  ends  which  nobody  else  would  eat. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Bumble,  when  the  lady  brought 
her  eyes  down  to  earth  again;  "the  only  thing 
that  can  be  done  now,  that  I  know  of,  is  to  leave 
him  in  the  cellar  for  a  day  or  so,  till  he's  a  little 
starved  down;  and  then  to  take  him  out,  and 
keep  him  on  gruel  all  through  his  apprenticeship. 
He  comes  of  a  bad  family.  Excitable  natures, 
Mrs.  Sowerberry!  Both  the  nurse  and  doctor 
said  that  that  mother  of  |  his  made  her  w^ay 
here,  against  difficulties  and  pain  that  would  have 
killed  any  well-disposed  woman,  weeks  before." 

At  this  point  of  Mr.  Bumble's  discourse,  Oliver, 
just  hearing  enough  to  know  that  some  new  allu- 


266  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

sion  was  being  made  to  his  mother,  recommenced 
kicking,  with  a  violence  that  rendered  every 
other  sound  inaudible.  Sowerberry  returned  at 
this  moment.  Oliver's  offense  having  been  ex- 
plained to  him,  with  such  exaggerations  as  the 
ladies  thought  best  calculated  to  rouse  his  ire, 
he  unlocked  the  cellar-door  in  a  twinkling,  and 
dragged  his  rebellious  apprentice  out  by  the  collar. 

Oliver's  clothes  had  been  torn  in  the  beating 
he  had  received ;  his  face  was  bruised  and  scratched ; 
and  his  hair  scattered  over  his  forehead. 
The  angry  flush  had  not  disappeared,  however; 
and  when  he  was  pulled  out  of  his  prison,  he 
scowled  boldly  on  Noah,  and  looked  quite  undis- 
mayed. 

"Now,  you  are  a  nice  young  fellow,  ain't  you?" 
said  SowerbeiTy,  giving  Oliver  a  shake  and  a  box 
on  the  ear. 

"He  called  my  mother  names,"  replied  Oliver. 

"Well,  and  what  if  he  did,  you  little  ungrateful 
wretch?"  said  Mrs.  Sowerberry.  "She  deserved 
what  he  said,  and  worse." 

"She  didn't,"  said  Oliver. 

"She  did,"  said  Mrs.  Sowerberry. 

"It's  a  lie!"  said  Oliver. 

Mrs.  Sowerberry  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

This  flood  of  tears  left  Mr.  Sowerberry  nothing 


OLIVER  TWIST  267 

else  to  do ;  so  he  at  once  gave  Oliver  a  drubbing, 
which  satisfied  even  Mrs.  Sowerberry  herself. 
For  the  rest  of  the  day  he  was  shut  up  in  the  back 
kitchen,  in  company  with  a  pump  and  a  slice  of 
bread;  and,  at  night,  Mrs.  Sowerberry,  after 
making  various  remarks  outside  the  door,  by  no 
means  kind  to  the  memory  of  his  mother,  looked 
into  the  room,  and,  amidst  the  jeers  and  pointings 
of  Noah  and  Charlotte,  ordered  him  up-stairs  to 
his  dismal  bed. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  left  alone  in  the  silence 
and  stillness  of  the  gloomy  workshop  of  the  under- 
taker that  OHver  gave  way  to  the  feelings  which 
the  day's  treatment  may  be  supposed  likely  to 
have  awakened  in  a  mere  child.  He  had  listened 
to  their  taunts  with  a  look  of  contempt;  he  had 
borne  the  lash  without  a  cry;  for  he  felt  that 
pride  swelling  in  his  heart  which  would  have  kept 
down  a  shriek  to  the  last,  though  they  had 
roasted  him  alive.  But  now,  when  there  was 
none  to  see  or  hear  him,  he  fell  upon  his  knees  on 
the  floor;  and,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  wept 
bitter  tears  and  prayed  in  his  bleeding  heart  that 
God  would  help  him  to  get  away  from  these  cruel 
people.  There,  upon  his  knees,  Oliver  determined 
to  run  away,  and,  rising,  tied  up  a  few  clothes  in  a 
handkerchief  and  went  to  bed. 


268  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

With  the  first  ray  of  Hght  that  struggled  through 
the  crevices  in  the  shutters,  OHver  arose  and 
unbarred  the  door.  One  timid  look  around — 
one  moment's  pause  of  hesitation — he  had  closed 
it  behind  him,  and  was  in  the  open  street. 

He  looked  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  uncertain 
which  way  to  fly.  He  remembered  to  have  seen 
the  wagons,  as  they  went  out,  toiling  up  the  hill. 
He  took  the  same  route;  and  arriving  at  a  foot- 
path across  the  fields,  which  he  knew,  after  some 
distance,  led  out  again  into  the  road,  struck  into  it, 
and  walked  quickly  on. 

Along  this  same  foot-path,  Oliver  well  remem- 
bered he  had  trotted  beside  Mr.  Bumble  when  he 
first  carried  him  to  the  workhouse  from  the  farm. 
His  heart  beat  quickly  when  he  bethought  him- 
self of  this,  and  he  half  resolved  to  turn  back. 
He  had  come  a  long  way  though,  and  should  lose 
a  great  deal  of  time  by  doing  so.  Besides,  it  was 
so  early  that  there  was  very  little  fear  of  his  being 
seen;  so  he  walked  on. 

He  reached  the  house.  There  was  no  appear- 
ance of  the  people  inside  stirring  at  that  early 
hour.  Oliver  stopped,  and  peeped  into  the  gar- 
den. A  child  was  weeding  one  of  the  little  beds ; 
as  he  stopped,  he  raised  his  pale  face  and  dis- 
closed the  features  of  one  of  his  former  compan- 


OLIVER  TWIST  269 

ions.  Oliver  felt  glad  to  see  him  before  he  went; 
for,  though  younger  than  himself,  he  had  been  his 
little  friend  and  playmate.  They  had  been 
beaten,  and  starved,  and  shut  up  together  many 
and  many  a  time. 

"Hush,  Dick!"  said  Oliver,  as  the  boy  ran  to  the 
gate,  and  thrust  his  thin  arm  between  the  rails  to 
greet  him.     "Is  anyone  up?" 

"Nobody  but  me,"  replied  the  child. 

"You  mustn't  say  you  saw  me,  Dick,"  said 
Oliver.  "I  am  running  away.  They  beat  and 
ill-use  me,  Dick;  and  I  am  going  to  seek  my  for- 
tune some  long  way  off.  I  don't  know  where. 
How  pale  you  are!" 

"I  heard  the  doctor  tell  them  I  was  dying," 
replied  the  child,  with  a  faint  smile.  "I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you,  dear;  but  don't  stop,  don't 
stop!" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  to  say  good-by  to  you," 
replied  Oliver.  "I  shall  see  you  again,  Dick.  I 
know  I  shall.     You  will  be  well  and  happy!" 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  the  child.  "After  I  am 
dead,  but  not  before.  I  know  the  doctor  must  be 
right,  Oliver,  because  I  dream  so  much  of 
heaven  and  angels,  and  kind  faces  that  I  never  see 
when  I  am  awake.  Kiss  me,"  said  the  child, 
climbing  up  the  low  gate,  and  flinging  his  little 


2  7©  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

arms  around  Oliver's  neck:  '*Good-by,  dear! 
God  bless  you!" 

The  blessing  was  from  a  young  child's  lips,  but 
it  was  the  first  that  Oliver  had  ever  heard  invoked 
upon  his  head;  and  through  the  struggles  and 
sufferings,  and  troubles  and  changes  of  his  after- 
life, he  never  once  forgot  it. 

Oliver  soon  got  into  the  high-road.  It  was 
eight  o'clock  now.  Though  he  was  nearly  five 
miles  away  from  the  town,  he  ran,  and  hid 
behind  the  hedges,  by  turns,  till  noon,  fear- 
ing that  he  might  be  pursued  and  overtaken. 
Then  he  sat  down  to  rest  by  the  side  of  the  mile- 
stone. 

The  stone  by  which  he  was  seated  had  a  sign 
on  it  which  said  that  it  was  just  seventy  miles 
from  that  spot  to  London.  The  name  awakened 
a  new  train  of  ideas  in  the  boy's  mind,  London ! — 
that  great  large  place! — nobody — not  even  Mr. 
Bumble — could  ever  find  him  there!  He  had 
often  heard  the  old  men  in  the  workhouse,  too,  say 
that  no  lad  of  spirit  need  want  in  London;  and 
that  there  were  ways  of  living  in  that  vast  city 
which  those  who  had  been  bred  in  the  country 
parts  had  no  idea  of.  It  was  the  very  place  for 
a  homeless  boy,  who  must  die  in  the  streets  unless 
some-one   helped   him.     As  these  things  passed 


OLIVER  TWIST  271 

through  his  thoughts,  he  jumped  upon  his  feet  and 
again  walked  forward. 

He  had  made  the  distance  between  himself  and 
London  less  by  full  four  miles  more,  before  he 
thought  how  much  he  must  undergo  ere  he  could 
hope  to  reach  the  place  toward  which  he  was  go- 
ing. As  this  consideration  forced  itself  upon  him, 
he  slackened  his  pace  a  little,  and  meditated  upon 
his  means  of  getting  there.  He  had  a  crust  of 
bread,  a  coarse  shirt,  and  two  pairs  of  stockings  in 
his  bundle.  He  had  a  penny  too — a  gift  of 
Sowerberry's  after  some  funeral  in  which  he  had 
acquitted  himself  more  than  ordinarily  well — in  his 
pocket.  "A  clean  shirt, "  thought  Oliver,  "is  a  very 
comfortable  thing ;  and  so  are  two  pairs  of  darned 
stockings ;  and  so  is  a  penny ;  but  they  are  small 
helps  to  a  sixty-five  miles'  walk  in  winter-time." 

Thus  day  after  day  the  weary  but  plucky  little 
boy  walked  on,  and  early  on  the  seventh  morning 
after  he  had  left  his  native  place,  Oliver  limped 
slowly  into  the  little  town  of  Bamet,  and  sat  down 
on  a  doorstep  to  rest.  Some  few  stopped  to  gaze 
at  Oliver  for  a  moment  or  two,  or  turned  round  to 
stare  at  him  as  they  hurried  by ;  but  none  helped 
him,  or  troubled  themselves  to  inquire  how  he 
came  there.  He  had  no  heart  to  beg.  And  there 
he  sat  for  some  time  when  he  was  roused  by  obser\''- 


2  72  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

ing  that  a  boy  was  watching  him  most  earnestly 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  He  took  Httle 
heed  of  this  at  first ;  but  the  boy  remained  in  the 
same  attitude  so  long  that  Oliver  raised  his  head 
and  returned  his  steady  look.  Upon  this,  the  boy 
crossed  over,  and,  walking  close  up  to  Oliver,  said : 

"Hullo,  my  covey!     What's  the  row?" 

The  boy  who  had  spoken  to  the  young  way- 
farer was  about  his  own  age:  but  one  of  the 
queerest-looking  boys  that  Oliver  had  ever  seen. 
He  was  a  snub-nosed,  flat-browed,  common- 
faced  boy  enough;  and  as  dirty  a  youth  as  one 
would  wish  to  see ;  but  he  had  about  him  all  the 
airs  and  manners  of  a  man.  He  was  short  for  his 
age ;  with  rather  bow-legs,  and  little,  sharp,  ugly 
eyes.  His  hat  was  stuck  on  the  top  of  his  head 
so  lightly  that  it  threatened  to  fall  off  every 
moment.  He  wore  a  man's  coat,  which  reached 
nearly  to  his  heels. 

"Hullo,  my  covey!  What's  the  row?"  said  the 
stranger. 

"I  am  very  hungry  and  tired,"  replied  Oliver: 
the  tears  standing  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke.  "I 
have  walked  a  long  way.  I  have  been  walking 
these  seven  days.^" 

"Walking  for  sivin  days !"  said  the  young  gentle- 
man.    "Oh,  I  see.     Beak's  order,  eh?     But,"  he 


OLIVER  TWIST  273 

added,  noticing  Oliver's  look  of  surprise,  "I  sup- 
pose you  don't  know  what  a  beak  is,  my  flash  com- 
pan-i-on." 

Oliver  mildly  replied  that  he  had  always  heard 
a  bird's  mouth  described  by  the  word  beak. 

**My  eyes,  how  green!"  exclaimed  the  young 
gentleman.  ''Why,  a  beak's  a  madgst'rate;  and 
when  you  walk  by  a  beak's  order,  it's  not  straight 
forerd. 

"But  come,"  said  the  young  gentleman;  "you 
want  grub,  and  you  shall  have  it.  Up  with  you 
on  your  pins.     There !  Now  then !' ' 

Assisting  Oliver  to  rise,  the  young  gentleman 
took  him  to  a  near  by  grocery  store,  where  he 
bought  a  supply  of  ready-dressed  ham  and  a  half- 
quartern  loaf,  or,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  "a 
fourpenny  bran!"  Taking  the  bread  under  his 
arm,  the  young  gentleman  turned  into  a  small 
public-house,  and  led  the  way  to  a  tap-room  in  the 
rear  of  the  premises.  Here  a  pot  of  beer  was 
brought  in  by  direction  of  the  mysterious  youth ; 
and  Oliver,  falling  to  at  his  new  friend's  bidding, 
made  a  long  and  hearty  meal,  during  which  the 
strange  boy  eyed  him  from  time  to  time  with  great 
attention. 

"Going  to  London?"  said  the  strange  boy,  when 
Oliver  had  at  length  concluded. 


2  74  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

"Got  any  lodgings?" 
"No.'* 
"Money?'* 
"No." 

The  strange  boy  whistled,  and  put  his  arms  into 
his  pockets  as  far  as  the  big  coat-sleeves  would  let 
them  go. 

"Do  you  live  in  London?"  inquired  Oliver. 

"Yes,  I  do,  when  I'm  at  home,"  replied  the  boy. 
"I  suppose  you  want  some  place  to  sleep  in  to- 
night, don't  you?" 

"I  do,  indeed,"  answered  Oliver.  "I  have  not 
slept  under  a  roof  since  I  left  the  country." 

"Don't  fret  your  eyelids  on  that  score,"  said  the 
young  gentleman.  "I've  got  to  be  in  London 
to-night;  and  I  know  a  'spectable  old  genelman 
as  lives  there,  wot'll  give  you  lodgings  for  nothink, 
and  never  ask  for  the  change — that  is,  if  any 
genelman  he  knows  interduces  you.  And  don't 
he  know  me?  Oh,  no!  not  in  the  least!  By  no 
means.  Certainly  not!"  which  was  his  queer  way 
of  saying  he  and  the  old  gentleman  were  good 
friends. 

This  unexpected  offer  of  shelter  was  too  tempt- 
ing to  be  resisted,  especially  as  it  was  immediately 
followed  up  by  the  assurance  that  the  old  gentle- 


OLIVER  TWIST 


/5 


man  referred  to  would  doubtless  provide  Oliver 
with  a  comfortable  place,  without  loss  of  time. 
This  led  to  a  more  friendly  and  free  talk,  from 
which  Oliver  learned  that  his  friend's  name  was 
Jack  Dawkins — among  his  intimate  friends  better 
known  as  the  * 'Artful  Dodger" — and  that  he  was  a 
peculiar  pet  of  the  elderly  gentleman  before  men- 
tioned. 

As  John  Dawkins  objected  to  their  entering 
London  before  nightfall,  it  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock  when  they  reached  the  small  city  street, 
along  which  the  Dodger  scudded  at  a  rapid  pace, 
directing  Oliver  to  follow  close  at  his  heels. 

Although  Oliver  had  enough  to  occupy  his 
attention  in  keeping  sight  of  his  leader,  he  could 
not  help  bestowing  a  few  hasty  glances  on  either 
side  of  the  way  as  he  passed  along.  A  dirtier  or 
more  wretched  place  he  had  never  seen. 

Oliver  was  just  considering  whether  he  hadn't 
better  run  away,  when  they  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  hill.  His  conductor,  catching  him  by  the 
arm,  pushed  open  the  door  of  a  house,  and,  draw- 
ing him  into  the  passage,  closed  it  behind  them. 

"Now,  then!"  cried  a  voice  from  below,  in  reply 
to  a  whistle  from  the  Dodger. 

*Tlummy  and  slam !"  was  the  reply. 

This  seemed  to  be  some  watchword  or  signal 


2  76  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

that  all  was  right ;  for  the  light  of  a  feeble  candle 
gleamed  on  the  wall  at  the  remote  end  of  the  pas- 
sage, and  a  man's  face  peeped  out  from  where  a 
balustrade  of  the  old  kitchen  staircase  had  been 
broken  away. 

"There's  two  on  you,"  said  the  man,  thrusting 
the  candle  farther  out,  and  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hand.     ''Who's  the  t'other  one?" 

*'A  new  pal,"  replied  Jack  Dawkins,  pulling 
Oliver  forward. 

''Where  did  he  come  from?" 

"Greenland.     Is  Fagin  up-stairs?" 

"Yes;  he's  a  sortin'  the  wipes.  Up  with  you!" 
The  candle  was  drawn  back,  and  the  face  disap- 
peared. 

Oliver,  groping  his  way  with  one  hand,  and 
having  the  other  firmly  grasped  by  his  compan- 
ion, ascended  with  much  difficulty  the  dark  and 
broken  stairs ;  which  his  conductor  mounted  with 
an  ease  and  expedition  that  showed  he  was  well 
acquainted  with  them.  He  threw  open  the  door 
of  a  back-room,  and  drew  Oliver  in  after  him. 

The  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  room  were  perfectly 
black  with  age  and  dirt.  There  was  a  deal  table 
before  the  fire,  upon  which  were  a  candle  stuck 
in  a  ginger-beer  bottle,  two  or  three  pewter-pots, 
a  loaf  and  butter,  and  a  plate.     Seated  round  the 


OLIVER  TWIST  277 

table  were  four  or  five  boys,  none  older  than  the 
Dodger,  smoking  clay  pipes  and  drinking  spirits, 
with  the  air  of  middle-aged  men.  These  all 
crowded  about  their  friend  as  he  whispered  a  few 
words  to  the  Jewish  proprietor ;  and  then  turned 
round  and  grinned  at  Oliver.  So  did  the  Jew 
himself,  toasting-fork  in  hand. 

'This  is  him,  Fagin,"  said  Jack  Dawkins;  ''my 
friend,  Oliver  Twist." 

The  Jew  grimied,  and,  making  a  low  bow  to 
Oliver,  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  hoped  he  should 
have  the  honor  of  a  closer  acquaintance.  Upon 
this,  the  young  gentlemen  with  the  pipes  came 
round  him  and  shook  both  his  hands  very  hard. 

"We  are  very  glad  to  see  you,  Oliver,  very," 
said  the  Jew.  "Dodger,  take  off  the  sausages,  and 
draw  a  tub  near  the  fire  for  Oliver.  Ah!  you're 
a-staring  at  the  pocket-handkerchiefs!  eh,  my 
dear!  There  are  a  good  many  of  'em,  ain't  there? 
We've  just  looked  'em  out,  ready  for  the  wash: 
that's  all,  Oliver— that's  all.     Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

The  latter  part  of  this  speech  was  hailed  by  a 
noisy  shout  from  all  the  pupils  of  the  meny  old 
gentleman;  in  the  midst  of  which  they  went  to 
supper. 

Oliver  ate  his  share,  and  the  Jew  then  mixed 
him  a  glass  of  hot  gin  and  water,  telling  him  he 


278  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

must  drink  it  off  directly,  because  another  gentle- 
man wanted  the  tumbler.  Oliver  did  as  he  was 
desired.  Immediately  afterward  he  felt  himself 
gently  lifted  on  to  one  of  the  sacks;  and  then  he 
sunk  into  a  deep  sleep. 

It  was  late  next  morning  when  Oliver  awoke 
from  a  sound,  long  sleep.  There  was  no  other 
person  in  the  room  but  the  old  Jew,  who  was  boil- 
ing some  coffee  in  a  saucepan  for  breakfast,  and 
whistling  softly  to  himself  as  he  stirred  it  round 
and  round  with  an  iron  spoon.  He  would  stop 
every  now^  and  then  to  listen  when  there  was  the 
least  noise  below ;  and  when  he  had  satisfied  him- 
self, he  would  go  on,  whistling  and  stirring  again, 
as  before. 

Although  Oliver  had  roused  himself  from  sleep, 
he  was  not  thoroughly  awake. 

Oliver  was  precisely  in  this  condition.  He  saw 
the  Jew  with  his  half -closed  eyes;  heard  his  low 
whistling ;  and  recognized  the  sound  of  the  spoon 
grating  against  the  saucepan's  sides. 

When  the  coffee  was  done,  the  Jew  drew  the 
saucepan  to  the  hob,  looked  at  Oliver,  and  called 
him  by  his  name.  He  did  not  answer,  and  was 
to  all  appearance  asleep. 

After  satisfying  himself  upon  this  head,  the  Jew 
stepped  gently  to  the  door,  which  he  fastened. 


OLIVER  TWIST  279 

He  then  drew  forth,  as  it  seemed  to  Oliver,  from 
some  trap  in  the  floor,  a  small  box,  which  he  placed 
carefully  on  the  table.  His  eyes  glistened  as  he 
raised  the  lid  and  looked  in.  Dragging  an  old 
chair  to  the  table,  he  sat  down ;  and  took  from  it  a 
magnificent  gold  watch,  sparkling  with  jewels. 

"Aha!"  said  the  Jew,  shrugging  up  his  shoulders 
and  distorting  every  feature  with  a  hideous  grin. 
"Clever  dogs!  Clever  dogs!  Stanch  to  the  last! 
Never  told  the  old  parson  where  they  were. 
Never  peached  upon  old  Fagin !  And  why  should 
they?  It  wouldn't  have  loosened  the  knot,  or 
kept  the  drop  up,  a  minute  longer.  No,  no,  no! 
Fine  fellows !     Fine  fellows !' ' 

With  these  and  other  muttered  remarks  of  the 
like  nature,  the  Jew  once  more  laid  the  watch  in  its 
place  of  safety.  At  least  half  a  dozen  more  were 
severally  drawn  forth  from  the  same  box,  and 
looked  at  with  equal  pleasure ;  besides  rings,  brace- 
lets, and  other  articles  of  jewelry,  of  such  mag- 
nificent materials,  and  costly  workmanship,  that 
Oliver  had  no  idea  even  of  their  names. 

As  the  Jew  looked  up,  his  bright  dark  eyes, 
w^hich  had  been  staring  at  the  jewelry,  fell  on 
Ohver's  face;  the  boy's  eyes  were  fixed  on  his 
in  mute  curiosity;  and  although  the  recognition 
was  only  for  an  instant,  it  was  enough  to  show  the 


286  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

old  man  that  he  had  been  observed.  He  closed 
the  lid  of  the  box  with  a  loud  crash;  and,  laying 
his  hand  on  a  bread -knife  which  was  on  the  table, 
started  furiously  up. 

"What's  that?"  said  the  Jew.  "What  do  you 
watch  me  for?  Why  are  you  awake?  What 
have  you  seen?  Speak  out  boy!  Quick — quick! 
for  your  life !" 

"I  wasn't  able  to  sleep  any  longer,  sir,"  replied 
Oliver,  meekly.  "I  am  very  sorry  if  I  have  dis- 
turbed you,  sir." 

"You  were  not  awake  an  hour  ago?"  said  the 
Jew,  scowling  fiercely. 

"No!     No,  indeed!"  replied  Oliver. 

"Are  you  sure?"  cried  the  Jew,  with  a  still 
fiercer  look  than  before,  and  a  threatening  attitude. 

"Upon  my  word  I  was  not,  sir,"  replied  Oliver, 
earnestly. 

"Tush,  tush,  my  dear!"  said  the  Jew,  abruptly 
resuming  his  old  manner,  and  playing  with  the 
knife  a  little,  before  he  laid  it  down;  to  make 
Oliver  think  that  he  had  caught  it  up  in  mere 
sport.  "Of  course  I  know  that,  my  dear.  I  only 
tried  to  frighten  you.  You're  a  brave  boy.  Ha! 
ha!  you're  a  brave  boy,  Oliver!"  The  Jew 
rubbed  his  hands  with  a  chuckle,  but  glanced 
uneasily  at  the  box,  notwithstanding. 


OLIVER  TWIST  281 

''Did  you  see  any  of  these  pretty  things,  my 
dear?"  said  the  Jew,  laying  his  hand  upon  it  after 
a  short  pause. 

"Yes,  sir,"  repHed  OHver. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Jew,  turning  rather  pale.  They 
— they're  mine,  Oliver:  my  little  property.  All 
I  have  to  live  upon  in  my  old  age.  The  folks  call 
me  a  miser,  my  dear.  Only  a  miser;  that's 
all." 

Oliver  thought  the  old  gentleman  must  be  a 
decided  miser  to  live  in  such  a  dirty  place,  with  so 
many  watches;  but,  thinking  that  perhaps  his 
fondness  for  the  Dodger  and  the  other  boys  cost 
him  a  good  deal  of  money,  he  only  looked  kindly 
at  the  Jew,  and  asked  if  he  might  get  up. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly,"  replied  the  old 
gentleman.  "There's  a  pitcher  of  water  in  the 
comer  by  the  door.  Bring  it  here,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  basin  to  wash  in,  my  dear." 

OHver  got  up,  walked  across  the  room,  and 
stooped  for  an  instant  to  raise  the  pitcher.  When 
he  turned  his  head  the  box  was  gone. 

He  had  scarcely  washed  himself,  and  made 
everything  tidy  by  emptying  the  basin  out  of  the 
window,  agreeably  to  the  Jew's  directions,  when 
the  Dodger  returned,  accompanied  by  a  very 
sprightly  young  friend,   whom  Oliver  had   seen 


282  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

smoking  on  the  previous  night,  and  who  was  now 
formally  introduced  to  him  as  Charley  Bates. 
The  four  sat  down  to  breakfast  on  the  coffee  and 
some  hot  rolls  and  ham  which  the  Dodger  had 
brought  home  in  the  crown  of  his  hat. 

"Well,"  said  the  Jew,  glancing  slyly  at  Oliver, 
and  addressing  himself  to  the  Dodger,  "I  hope 
you've  been  at  work  this  morning,  my  dears?" 

''Hard,"  replied  the  Dodger. 

"As  nails,"  added  Charley  Bates. 

"Good  boys,  good  boys !"  said  the  Jew.  "What 
have  you,  Dodger?" 

"A  couple  of  pocket-books,"  replied  that  young 
gentleman. 

"Lined?"  inquired  the  Jew,  with  eagerness. 

"Pretty  well,"  replied  the  Dodger,  producing 
two  pocket-books. 

"Not  so  heavy  as  they  might  be,"  said  the  Jew, 
after  looking  at  the  insides  carefully;  "but  very 
neat  and  nicely  made.  A  good  workman,  ain't  he, 
Oliver?" 

"Very,  indeed,  sir,"  said  Oliver.  At  which  Mr. 
Charles  Bates  laughed  uproariously,  very  much 
to  the  amazement  of  Oliver,  who  saw  nothing  to 
laugh  at  in  anything  that  had  passed. 

"And  what  have  you  got,  my  dear?"  said  Fagin 
to  Charley  Bates. 


OLIVER  TWIST  283 

"Wipes,"  replied  Master  Bates;  at  the  same 
time  producing  four  pocket-handkerchiefs. 

**Well/'  said  the  Jew,  inspecting  them  closely; 
* 'they're  very  good  ones,  very.  You  haven't 
marked  them  well,  though,  Charley ;  so  the  marks 
shall  be  picked  out  with  a  needle,  and  we'll  teach 
Oliver  how  to  do  it.  Shall  us,  Oliver,  eh?  Ha! 
ha!  ha!" 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Oliver. 

"You'd  Hke  to  be  able  to  make  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs as  easy  as  Charley  Bates,  wouldn't  you, 
my  dear?"  said  the  Jew. 

"Very  much,  indeed,  if  you'll  teach  me,  sir," 
replied  Oliver. 

Master  Bates  burst  into  another  laugh. 

"He  is  so  jolly  green!"  said  Charley  when  he 
recovered,  as  an  apology  to  the  company  for  his 
impolite  behavior. 

The  Dodger  said  nothing,  but  he  smoothed 
Oliver's  hair  over  his  eyes,  and  said  he'd  know 
better  by-and-by. 

When  the  breakfast  was  cleared  away,  the 
merry  old  gentleman  and  the  two  boys  played  at  a 
very  curious  and  uncommon  game,  which  was 
performed  in  this  way :  The  merry  old  gentleman, 
placing  a  snuff-box  in  one  pocket  of  his  trousers, 
a  note-case  in  the  other,  and  a  watch  in  his  waist- 


284  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

coat  pocket,  with  a  guard-chain  round  his  neck, 
and  sticking  a  mock-diamond  pin  in  his  shirt, 
buttoned  his  coat  tight  around  him,  and  putting 
his  spectacle-case  and  handkerchief  in  his  pockets, 
trotted  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  stick,  in 
imitation  of  the  manner  in  which  old  gentlemen 
walk  about  the  streets  any  hour  in  the  day. 

Now  during  all  this  time  the  two  boys  followed 
him  closely  about,  getting  out  of  his  sight,  so 
nimbly,  every  time  he  turned  round  that  it  was 
impossible  to  follow  their  motions.  At  last  the 
Dodger  trod  upon  his  toes  or  ran  upon  his  boot 
accidentally,  while  Charley  Bates  stumbled  up 
against  him  behind ;  and  in  that  one  moment  they 
took  from  him,  with  the  most  extraordinary  rapid- 
ity, snuff-box,  note-case,  watch-guard,  chain, 
shirt-pin,  pocket  handkerchief,  even  the  spectacle- 
case.  If  the  old  gentleman  felt  a  hand  in  any  one 
of  his  pockets,  he  cried  out  where  it  was,  and  then 
the  game  began  all  over  again. 

When  this  game  had  been  played  a  great  many 
times,  Charley  Bates  expressed  his  opinion  that 
it  was  time  to  pad  the  hoof.  This,  it  occurred  to 
Oliver,  must  be  French  for  going  out ;  for,  directly 
afterward,  the  Dodger  and  Charley  went  away 
together,  having  been  kindly  furnished  by  the 
amiable  old  Jew  with  money  to  spend. 


OLIVER  TWIST  285 

'There,  my  dear,"  said  Fagin.  "That's  a 
pleasant  life,  isn't  it?  They  have  gone  out  for  the 
day." 

"Have  they  done  work,  sir?"  inquired  Oliver. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Jew;  "that  is,  unless  they 
should  unexpectedly  come  across  any  when  they 
are  out ;  and  they  won't  neglect  it,  if  they  do,  my 
dear,  depend  upon  it.  Make  'em  your  models, 
my  dear.  Make  'em  your  models,"  tapping  the 
fire-shovel  on  the  hearth  to  add  force  to  his  words ; 
"do  everything  they  bid  you,  and  take  their 
advice  in  all  matters — especially  the  Dodger's 
my  dear.  He'll  be  a  great  man  himself,  and  will 
make  you  one  too,  if  you  take  pattern  by  him. 
Is  my  handkerchief  hanging  out  of  my  pocket,  my 
dear?"  said  the  Jew,  stopping  short. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Oliver. 

"See  if  you  can  take  it  out,  without  my  feeling 
it,  as  you  saw  them  do  when  we  were  at  play  this 
morning." 

Oliver  held  up  the  bottom  of  the  pocket  with 
one  hand,  as  he  had  seen  the  Dodger  hold  it,  and 
drew  the  handkerchief  lightly  out  with  the  other. 

"Is  it  gone?"  cried  the  Jew. 

"Here  it  is,  sir,"  said  Oliver,  showing  it  in  his 
hand. 

"You're  a  clever  boy,  my  dear,"  said  the  play- 


286  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

ful  old  gentleman,  patting  Oliver  on  the  head 
approvingly.  *'I  never  saw  a  sharper  lad.  Here's 
a  shilling  for  you.  If  you  go  on  in  this  way,  you'll 
be  the  greatest  man  of  the  time.  And  now  come 
here,  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  take  the  marks  out 
of  the  handkerchief." 

Oliver  wondered  what  picking  the  old  gentle- 
man's pocket  in  play  had  to  do  with  his  chances 
of  being  a  great  man.  But,  thinking  that  the 
Jew,  being  so  much  older  must  know  best,  he 
followed  him  quietly  to  the  table,  and  was  soon 
deeply  at  work  in  his  new  study. 

For  many  days  Oliver  remained  in  the  Jew's 
room,  picking  the  marks  out  of  the  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs (of  which  a  great  number  were  brought 
home),  and  sometimes  taking  part  in  the  game 
already  described,  which  the  two  boys  and  the 
Jew  played,   regularly,   every  morning. 

At  length,  one  morning,  Oliver  obtained  the 
permission  to  go  out  with  the  boys.  There  had 
been  no  handkerchiefs  to  work  upon  for  two  or 
three  days,  and  the  dinners  had  been  rather 
meager.  Perhaps  these  were  reasons  for  the  old 
gentleman  giving  his  assent;  but,  whether  they 
were  or  no,  he  told  Oliver  he  might  go,  and  placed 
him  under  the  joint  care  of  Charley  Bates  and  his 
friend,  the  Dodger. 


OLIVER  TWIST  287 

The  three  boys  started  out ;  the  Dodger  with  his 
coat-sleeves  tucked  up  and  his  hat  cocked,  as 
usual;  Master  Bates  sauntering  along  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets;  and  Oliver  between  them, 
v/ondering  where  they  were  going,  and  what  they 
would  teach  him  to  make  first. 

They  were  just  coming  from  a  narrow  court 
not  far  from  an  open  square,  which  is  yet  called 
"The  Green,"  when  the  Dodger  made  a  sudden 
stop,  and,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lip,  drew  his 
companions  back  again,  with  the  greatest  caution. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Oliver. 

' '  Hush !' '  replied  the  Dodger.  '  'Do  you  see  that 
old  cove  at  the  book-stall?" 

''The  old  gentleman  over  the  way?"  said  Oliver. 
"Yes,  I  see  him." 

"He'll  do,"  said  the  Dodger. 

"A  prime  plant,"  observed  Master  Charley 
Bates. 

Oliver  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  the 
greatest  surprise,  but  he  w^as  not  permitted  to 
make  any  inquiries;  for  the  two  boys  walked 
stealthily  across  the  road  and  slunk  close  behind 
the  old  gentleman.  Oliver  walked  a  few  paces 
after  them,  and,  not  knowing  whether  to  advance 
or  retire,  stood  looking  on  in  silent  amazement. 

The  old  gentleman  was  a  very  respectable- 


288  DICKENS'  CHILDREN 

looking  personage,  with  a  powdered  head  and  gold 
spectacles,  as  he  stood  reading  a  book ;  and  what 
was  Oliver's  horror  and  alarm  as  he  stood  a  few 
paces  off,  looking  on  with  his  eyelids  as  wide  open 
as  they  would  possibly  go,  to  see  the  Dodger 
plunge  his  hand  into  the  old  gentleman's  pocket 
and  draw  from  thence  a  handkerchief!  To  see 
him  hand  the  same  to  Charley  Bates ;  and  finally 
to  behold  them  both  running  away  round  the 
comer. 

In  an  instant  the  whole  mystery  of  the  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  the  watches,  and  the  jewels,  and  the 
Jew,  rushed  upon  the  boy's  mind.  He  stood,  for 
a  moment,  with  the  blood  so  tingling  through  all 
his  veins  from  terror  that  he  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a 
burning  fire;  then,  confused  and  frightened,  he 
took  to  his  heels,  and,  not  knowing  w^hat  he  did, 
made  off  as  fast  as  he  could  lay  his  feet  to  the 
ground. 

This  was  all  done  in  a  minute's  space.  In  the 
very  instant  when  Oliver  began  to  run,  the  old 
gentleman,  putting  his  hand  to  his  pocket,  and 
missing  his  handkerchief,  turned  sharp  round. 
Seeing  the  boy  scudding  away  at  such  a  rapid 
pace,  he  very  naturally  concluded  him  to  be  the 
thief;  and,  shouting  ''Stop  thief!"  with  all  his 
might,  made  off  after  him,  book  in  hand. 


OLIVER   TWIST  289 

But  the  old  gentleman  was  not  the  only  person 
who  raised  the  hue-and-cry.  The  Dodger  and 
Master  Bates,  unwilling  to  attract  public  attention 
by  running  down  the  open  street,  had  merely 
retired  into  the  very  first  doorway  round  the  cor- 
ner. They  no  sooner  heard  the  cry,  and  saw 
Oliver  running,  than,  guessing  exactly  how  the 
matter  stood,  they  issued  forth  with  great  quick- 
ness; and  shouting  "Stop  thief!"  too,  joined  in  the 
pursuit  like  good  citizens. 

Away  they  ran,  pell-mell,  helter-skelter,  slap- 
dash; tearing,  yelling,  screaming,  knocking  down 
the  passengers  as  they  turn  the  corners,  rousing  up 
the  dogs,  and  astonishing  the  fowls;  and  making 
streets,  squares,  and  courts  re-echo  with  the 
sound. 

At  last  a  burly  fellow  struck  Oliver  a  terrible 
blow  and  he  went  down  upon  the  pavement; 
and  the  crowd  eagerly  gathered  round  him,  each 
newcomer  jostling  and  struggling  with  the  others 
to  catch  a  glimpse.  "Stand  aside!"  "Give  him 
a  little  air!"  "Nonsense!  he  don't  deserve  it!" 
"Where's  the  gentleman?"  "Here  he  is,  coming 
down  the  street."  "Make  room  there  for  the 
gentleman!"    "Is  this  the  boy,  sir?" 

Oliver  lay  covered  with  mud  and  dust,  and 
bleeding    from   the  mouth,   looking   wildly   round 

29 


290  DICKENS'    CHILDREN 

upon  the  heap  of  faces  that  surrounded  him,  when 
the  old  gentleman  was  officiously  dragged  and 
pushed  into  the  circle  by  the  foremost  of  the  pur- 
suers. 

''Yes,"  said  the  gentleman,  "I  am  afraid  it  is 
the  boy." 

*'Afraid!"  murmured  the  crowd.  'That's  a 
good  'un!" 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  the  gentleman,  "he  has  hurt 
himself." 

"I  did  that,  sir,"  said  a  great  lubberly  fellow, 
stepping  forward;  "and  preciously  I  cut  my 
knuckle  agin  his  mouth.  I  stopped  him, 
sir." 

The  fellow  touched  his  hat  with  a  grin,  expect- 
ing something  for  his  pains;  but  the  old  gentle- 
man, eyeing  him  with  an  expression  of  dislike, 
looked  anxiously  round,  as  if  he  contemplated 
lunning  away  himself;  which  it  is  very  possible 
he  might  have  attempted  to  do,  and  thus  have 
afforded  another  chase,  had  not  a  police  officer 
(who  is  generally  the  last  person  to  arrive  in  such 
cases)  at  that  moment  made  his  w^ay  through  the 
crowed,  and  seized  Oliver  by  the  collar. 

"Come,  get  up,"  said  the  man,  roughly. 

"It  wasn't  me,  indeed,  sir.  Indeed,  indeed,  it 
was   two   other   boys,"    said   Oliver,   clasping   his 


OLIVER  TWIST  291 

hands  passionately  and  looking  round.  "They  are 
here  somewhere." 

"Oh  no,  they  ain't,"  said  the  officer.  He  meant 
this  to  be  ironical,  but  it  was  true  besides;  for  the 
Dodger  and  Charley  Bates  had  filed  off  down  the 
first  convenient  court  they  came  to.  "Come,  get 
up !" 

"Don't  hurt  him,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
compassionately. 

"Oh  no,  I  won't  hurt  him,"  replied  the  officer, 
tearing  his  jacket  half  off  his  back,  in  proof  thereof. 
"Come,  I  know  you;  it  won't  do.  Will  you  stand 
upon  your  legs,  you  young  devil  ?" 

Oliver,  who  could  hardly  stand,  made  a  shift  to 
raise  himself  on  his  feet,  and  was  at  once  lugged 
along  the  streets  by  the  jacket-collar  at  a  rapid 
pace.  The  gentleman  walked  on  with  them  by  the 
officer's  side. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  place  called  Mutton  Hill. 
Here  he  was  led  beneath  a  low  archway,  and  up  a 
dirty  court,  where  they  saw  a  stout  man  with  a 
bunch  of  whiskers  on  his  face  and  a  bunch  of  keys 
in  his  hand. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  said  the  man  care- 
lessly. 

"A  young  fogle-hunter,"  replied  the  officer  who 
had  Oliver  in  charge. 


292  DICKENS'   CHILDREN 

"Are  you  the  party  that's  been  robbed,  sir?" 
inquired  the  man  with  the  keys. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  the  old  gentleman;  "but 
I  am  not  sure  that  this  boy  actually  took  the 
handkerchief.     I  would  rather  not  press  the  case." 

"Must  go  before  the  magistrate  now,  sir,"  replied 
the  man.  "His  worship  will  be  disengaged  in  half 
a  minute.     Now,  young  gallows!" 

This  was  an  invitation  for  Oliver  to  enter 
through  a  door  which  he  unlocked  as  he  spoke, 
and  which  led  into  a  stone  cell.  Here  he  was 
searched,  and,  nothing  being  found  upon  him, 
locked  up. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  almost  as  unhappy  as 
Oliver  when  the  key  grated  in  the  lock. 

At  last  this  gentleman,  Mr.  Brownlow,  was 
summoned  before  the  magistrate — a  very  mean 
man,  whose  name  was  Fang.  Oliver  was  brought 
in,  and  the  magistrate,  after  using  very  abusive 
language  to  Mr.  Brownlow,  had  him  sworn,  but 
would  not  let  him  tell  his  story.  He  flew  into  a 
rage  and  told  the  policeman  to  tell  what  happened. 

The  policeman,  wuth  becoming  humility,  related 
how  he  had  taken  the  boy;  how  he  had  searched 
Oliver,  and  found  nothing  on  his  person;  and  how 
that  was  all  he  knew  about  it. 

"Are  there  any  witnesses?"  inquired  Mr.  Fang, 


OLIVER  TWIST  293 

*'None,  your  worship,"  replied  the  policeman. 

Mr.  Fang  sat  silent  for  some  minutes,  and  then, 
turning  round  to  Mr.  Brownlow,  said  in  a  towering 
passion : 

"Do  you  mean  to  state  what  your  complaint 
against  this  boy  is,  man,  or  do  you  not  ?  You  have 
been  sworn.  Now,  if  you  stand  there,  refusing 
to  give  evidence,  I'll  punish  you  for  disrespect  to 
the  bench." 

With  many  interruptions,  and  repeated  insults, 
Mr.  Brownlow  contrived  to  state  his  case;  observ- 
ing  that,  in  the  surprise  of  the  moment,  he  had  run 
after  the  boy  because  he  saw  him  running  away. 

"He  has  been  hurt  already,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, in  conclusion.  "And  I  fear,"  he  added, 
with  great  energy,  looking  toward  the  bar,  "I 
really  fear  that  he  is  ill." 

"Oh!  yes,  I  dare  say!"  said  Mr.  Fang,  with  a 
sneer.  "Come,  none  of  your  tricks  here,  you 
young  vagabond;  they  won't  do.  What's  your 
name?'' 

Oliver  tried  to  reply,  but  his  tongue  failed  him. 
He  was  deadly  pale;  and  the  whole  place  seemed 
turning  round  and  round. 

"What's  your  name,  you  hardened  scoundrel?" 
demanded  Mr.  Fang. 

At  this  point  of  the  inquiry,  Oliver  raised  his 


294  DICKENS'    CHILDREN 

head,  and,  looking  round  with  imploring  eyes, 
asked  feebly  for  a  drink  of  water. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  said  Fang;  ''don't  try  to 
make  a  fool  of  me." 

"I  think  he  really  is  ill,  your  worship,"  said  the 
officer. 

"I  know  better,"  said  Mr.  Fang. 

'Take  care  of  him,  officer,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, raising  his  hands  instinctively;  "he'll  fall 
down." 

"Stand  away,  officer,"  cried  Fang;  "let  him,  if 
he  likes." 

Oliver  availed  himself  of  the  kind  permission, 
and  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  fainting  fit.  The  men  in 
the  office  looked  at  each  other,  but  no  one  dared  to 
stir. 

"I  knew  he  was  shamming,"  said  Fang,  as  if 
this  were  enough  proof  of  the  fact.  "Let  him  lie 
there;  he'll  soon  be  tired  of  that." 

"How  do  you  propose  to  deal  with  the  case,  sir  ?" 
inquired  the  clerk  in  a  low  voice. 

"Summarily,"  replied  Mr.  Fang.  "He  stands 
committed  for  three  months — hard  labor,  of 
course.    Clear  the  office. 

The  door  was  opened  for  this  purpose,  and  a 
couple  of  men  were  preparing  to  carry  the  insen- 
sible boy  to  his  cell,  when  an  elderly  man  of  decent 


OLIVER  TWIST  295 

but  poor  appearance,  dad  in  an  old  suit  of  black, 
rushed  in. 

"Stop!  stop!  Don't  take  him  away!  For 
heaven's  sake  stop  a  moment!"  cried  the  newcomer, 
breathless  with  haste. 

''What  is  this?  Who  is  this?  Turn  this  man 
out.     Clear  the  office,"  cried  Mr.  Fang. 

*'I  will  speak,''  cried  the  man;  "I  will  not  be 
turned  out.  I  saw  it  all.  I  keep  the  book-stall. 
I  demand  to  be  sworn.  I  will  not  be  put  down. 
Mr.  Fang,  you  must  hear  me.  You  must  not 
refuse,  sir." 

The  man  was  right.  His  manner  was  deter- 
mined; and  the  matter  was  growing  rather  too 
serious  to  be  hushed  up. 

"Swear  the  man,"  growled  Mr.  Fang,  with  a 
very  ill  grace.  "Now,  man,  what  have  you  id 
say?" 

"This,"  said  the  man:  "I  saw  three  boys — 
two  others  and  the  prisoner  here — loitering  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  when  this  gentleman 
was  reading.  The  robbery  was  committed  by 
another  boy.  I  saw  it  done;  and  I  saw  this  boy 
was  perfectly  amazed  and  stupefied  by  it." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  here  before?"  said  Fang, 
after  a  pause. 

"I  hadn't  a  soul  to  mind  the  shop,"  replied  the 


296  DICKENS'    CHILDREN 

man.  "Everybody  who  could  have  helped  me 
had  joined  in  the  pursuit.  I  could  get  nobody 
till  five  minutes  ago;  and  I  have  run  here  all  the 
way  to  speak  the  truth." 

"The  boy  is  discharged.  Clear  the  office!" 
shouted  the  angry  magistrate. 

The  command  was  obeyed;  and  as  Oliver  was 
taken  out  he  fainted  away  again  in  the  yard,  and 
lay  with  his  face  a  deadly  white  and  a  cold  trem- 
ble convulsing  his  frame. 

"Poor  boy!  poor  boy!"  said  Mr.  Brownlow, 
bending  over  him.  "Call  a  coach,  somebody, 
pray.    Directly !" 

A  coach  was  obtained,  and  Oliver,  having  been 
carefully  laid  on  one  seat,  the  old  gentleman  got 
in  and  sat  himself  on  the  other. 

"May  I  go  with  you?"  said  the  book-stall  keeper, 
looking  in. 

"Bless  me,  yes,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown- 
low  quickly.  "I  forgot  you.  Dear,  dear!  I 
have  this  unhappy  book  still!  Jump  in.  Poor 
fellow!    No  time  to  lose." 

The  book-stall  keeper  got  into  the  coach,  and  it 
rattled  away.  It  stopped  at  length  before  a  neat 
house,  in  a  quiet  shady  street.  Here  a  bed  was 
prepared,  without  loss  of  time,  in  which  Mr. 
Brownlow   saw   his   young  charge  carefully  and 


OLIVER   TWIST  297 

comfortably  laid;  and  here  he  was  tended  with  a 
kindness  and  solicitude  that  knew  no  bounds. 

At  last  the  sick  boy  began  to  recover,  and  one 
day  Mr.  Brownlow  came  to  see  him.  You  may 
imagine  how  happy  Oliver  was  to  see  his  good 
friend;  but  he  was  no  more  delighted  than  was 
Mr.  Brownlow.  The  old  gentleman  came  to 
spend  a  short  time  with  him  every  day;  and,  when 
he  grew  stronger,  Oliver  went  up  to  the  learned 
gentleman's  study  and  talked  with  him  by  the 
hour  and  was  astonished  at  the  books  he  saw,  and 
which  Mr.  Brownlow  told  him  to  look  at  and  read 
as  much  as  he  liked. 

Oliver  was  soon  well,  and  no  thought  was  in 
Mr.  Brownlow's  mind  but  that  he  should  keep 
him,  and  raise  him  and  educate  him  to  be  a 
splendid  man;  for  no  father  loves  his  own  son 
better  than  Mr.  Brownlow  had  come  to  love  Oliver. 

Now,  I  know,  you  want  to  ask  me  what  became 
of  Oliver  Twist.  But  I  cannot  tell  you  here. 
Let  us  leave  him  in  this  beautiful  home  of  good 
Mr.  Brownlow;  and,  if  you  want  to  read  the  rest 
of  his  wonderful  story,  get  Dickens'  big  book 
called  Oliver  Twist,  and  read  it  there.  There  were 
many  surprises  and  much  trouble  yet  in  store  for 
Oliver,  but  he  was  always  noble,  honest,  and 
brave. 


THE- 

Famous  Standard  Juveniles 


Published  by 

THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  CO. 

Philadelphia 


EDWARD  S.  ELLIS 

Edward  S.  Ellis,  the  popular  writer  of  boys'  books,  is  & 
native  of  Ohio,  where  he  was  born  somewhat  more  than  a  half- 
century  ago.  His  father  was  a  famous  hunter  and  rifle  shot, 
and  it  was  doubtless  his  exploits  and  those  of  his  associates, 
with  their  tales  of  adventure  which  gave  the  son  his  taste 
for  the  breezy  backwoods  and  for  depicting  the  stirring  life 
of  the  early  settlers  on  the  frontier. 

Mr.  Ellis  began  writing  at  an  early  age  and  his  work  was 
acceptable  from  the  first.  His  parents  removed  to  New 
Jersey  while  he  was  a  boy  and  he  was  graduated  from  the 
State  Normal  School  and  became  a  member  of  the  faculty 
while  still  in  his  teens.  He  was  afterward  principal  of  the 
Trenton  High  School,  a  trustee  and  then  superintendent 
of  schools.  By  that  time  his  services  as  a  writer  had  become 
so  pronounced  that  he  gave  his  entire  attention  to  liter- 
ature. He  was  an  exceptionally  successful  teacher  and 
wrote  a  number  of  text-books  for  schools,  all  of  which  met 
with  high  favor.  For  these  and  his  historical  productions, 
Princeton  College  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  Master 
of  Arts. 

The  high  moral  character,  the  clean,  manly  tendencies 
and  the  admirable  literary  style  of  Mr.  Ellis'  stories  have 
made  him  as  popular  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  as  in 
this  country.     A  leading  paper  remarked  some  time  sinc«, 

z6 


that  no  mother  need  hesitate  to  place  in  the  hands  of  her 
boy  any  book  written  by  Mr.  Ellis.  They  are  found  in 
the  leading  Sunday-school  libraries,  where,  as  may  well 
be  believed,  they  are  in  wide  demand  and  do  much  good 
by  their  sound,  wholesome  lessons  which  render  them  as 
acceptable  to  parents  as  to  their  children.  Nearly  all  of 
the  Ellis  books  pubUshed  by  The  John  C.  Winston  Company 
are  reissued  in  London,  and  many  have  been  translated 
into  other  languages.  Mr.  Ellis  is  a  writer  of  varied  accom- 
plishments, and,  in  addition  to  his  stories,  is  the  author  of 
historical  works,  of  a  number  of  pieces  of  popular  music, 
and  has  made  several  valuaole  inventions.  Mr.  Ellis  is  in 
the  prime  of  his  mental  and  physical  powers,  and  great  as 
have  been  the  merits  of  his  past  achievements,  there  is 
reason  to  look  for  more  briUiant  productions  from  his  pen  in 
the  near  future. 


DEERFOOT  SERIES 

3  vote.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

Hunters  of  the  Ozark  The  Last  War  Trail 

Camp  in  the  Mountains 

LOG  CAB[N  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD   S.  ELLIS  S3.00 

Lost  Trail  Footprints  in  the  Forest 

Camp-Fire  and  Wigwam 

BOY  PIONEER  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD   S.  ELLIS  $3.0© 

Ned  in  the  Block-House  Ned  on  the  River 

Ned  in   the  Woods 

THE  NORTHWEST  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

Two  Boys  in  Wyoming  Cowmen  and  Rustlers 

A  Strange  Craft  and  its  Wonderful  Voyage 

BOONE  AND  KENTON  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

Shod  with  Silence  In  the  Days  of  the  Pioneers 

Phantom  of  the  River 

WAR  CHIEF  SERIES 

^  vote.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

Red  Eagle  Blazing  Arrow 

Iron  Heart,  War  Chief  of  the  Iroquois 

17 


THE  NEW  DEERFOOT  SEREES 

^  roK  By  EDWAkD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

Decffoot  in  the  Forest  Deerfoot  on  the  Prairit 

Deerfoot  in  the  Mountains 

TRUE  GRIT  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3x0 

Jim  and  Joe  Dorsey,  the  Young  Inventor 

Secret  of  Coffin  Island 

QREAT  AMERICAN  SERIES 

2  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $2.00 

Teddy  and  Towser ;  or,  Early  Days  in  California 
Up  the  Forked  River 

COLONIAL  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

An  American  King  The  Cromwell  of  Virginia 

The  Last  Emperor  of  the  Old  Dominion 

FOREIGN   ADVENTURE  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3,00 

Lost  in  the  Forbidden  Land  River  and  Jungle 

The  Hunt  of   the  White   Elephant 

PADDLE  YOUR  OWN  CANOE  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

The  Forest  Messengers  The  Mountain  Star 

Queen  of  the  Clouds 

THE  ARIZONA  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

Oflf  the  Reservation  Trailing  Geronimo 

The  Round  Up 

OVERLAND  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

Alden,  the  Pony  Express  Rider     Alden  Among  the  Indians 

THE  CATAMOUNT  CAMP  SERIES 

a  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $2.00 

Captain  of  the  Camp  Catamount  Camp 

THE  FLYING  BOYS  SERIES 

3  vols.  By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS  $3.00 

The  Flying  Boys  in  the  Sky        The  Flying  Boys  to  the  Rescue 


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This  Series  of  Books  comprises  subjects  that  appeal  to 
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HURLBUT'S   STORY   OF 

npnTtT*    r>Tr>T  r?     •     from  genesis 
1  rlJli    rSlrSl^iL    .  .    to  revelation 

BY    REV.    JESSE    LYMAN   HURLBUT,   D.D. 

A  BOOK  FOR  OLD  AND  YOUNG 

TOLD  in  language  that  interests  both  Old  and  Young. 
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During  his  trip  abroad  last  summer,  Mr.  Ellis  became 
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trEW  EDITION  OF  ALGER'S   GREATEST  SET  OF   BOOKS 

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with  heavy  gold  stamp. 

As  is  weU  known,  the  books  in  this  series  are  copy- 
righted, and  consequently  none  of  them  will  be  found  in 
any  other  publisher's  list. 

RAGGED  DICK  SERIES.    B7  Horatio  Alger,  Jr.     6  vols. 
RAGGED  DICK  ROUGH  AND  READY 

FAME  AND  FORTUNE  BEN,  THE    LUGGAGE   BOY 

MARK,  THE  MATCH  BOY  ROFUS  AND  ROSE 

Each  set  is  packed  in  a  handsome  box 

12  mo.      Cloth 
Sold  only  in  sets Price  per  set,  $3.60.     Postpaid 

RECOMMENDED  BY   REAR  ADMIRAL   MELVILLE,  WHO 
COMMANDED  THREE  EXPEDITIONS   TO  THE  ARCTIC   REGIONS 

THE  — 

New  Popular  Science  Series 

BY   PROF.  EDWIN  J.  HOUSTON 

THE  NORTH  POLE  SERIES.  By  Prof.  Edwin  J. 
Houston.  This  is  an  entirely  new  series,  which  opens  a 
new  field  in  Juvenile  Literature.  Dr.  Houston  has  spent 
a  lifetime  in  teaching  boys  the  principles  of  physical  and 
scientific  phenomena  and  knows  how  to  talk  and  write 
for  them  in  a  way  that  is  most  attractive.  In  the  read- 
ing of  these  stories  the  most  accitrate  scientific  informa- 
tion will  be  absorbed. 

THE  SEARCH  FOR  THE  NORTH  POLE 

THE  DISCOVERY  OF  THE  NORTH  POLE 

CAST  AWAY  AT  THE   NORTH  POLE 

Handsomely  bound.     The  volumes,   12mo.  in  size,  are  boimd  in 

Extra  English  Cloth,  and  are  attractively  stamped  in  colors  and 

full  gold  titles.     Sold   separately    or   in   sets,  boxed. 

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