“There are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts”
Brownlow
calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room,
quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little
gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr.
Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book
away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down.
Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read
such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world
wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver
Twist, every day of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr.
Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the
shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver. “I never saw so many.”
“You shall read them, if you behave well,” said the old gentleman
kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at the
outsides,—that is, some cases; because there are books of which the
backs and covers are by far the best parts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to
some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head,
and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones, though
of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man,
and write books, eh?”
“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.
“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it
would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old
gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing.
Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it
was.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features. “Don’t be
afraid! We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade
to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver.
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known”
I see the good old man, so long their
friend, in ten years’ time enriching them with all he has, and passing
tranquilly to his reward.
“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other’s soul,
than I was in the souls of both.
“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigurement--and I hear him
tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
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“Life is made of ever so many partings welded together”
’ (When I married your sister, sir, I said ‘I will;’ and
when I answered your friend, Pip, I said ‘I am.’) ‘Would you tell him,
then,’ said she, ‘that which Estella has come home and would be glad to
see him.’”
I felt my face fire up as I looked at Joe. I hope one remote cause of
its firing may have been my consciousness that if I had known his
errand, I should have given him more encouragement.
“Biddy,” pursued Joe, “when I got home and asked her fur to write the
message to you, a little hung back. Biddy says, ‘I know he will be very
glad to have it by word of mouth, it is holiday time, you want to see
him, go!’ I have now concluded, sir,” said Joe, rising from his chair,
“and, Pip, I wish you ever well and ever prospering to a greater and a
greater height.”
“But you are not going now, Joe?”
“Yes I am,” said Joe.
“But you are coming back to dinner, Joe?”
“No I am not,” said Joe.
Our eyes met, and all the “Sir” melted out of that manly heart as he
gave me his hand.
“Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded
together, as I may say, and one man’s a blacksmith, and one’s a
whitesmith, and one’s a goldsmith, and one’s a coppersmith. Diwisions
among such must come, and must be met as they come. If there’s been any
fault at all to-day, it’s mine. You and me is not two figures to be
together in London; nor yet anywheres else but what is private, and
beknown, and understood among friends. It ain’t that I am proud, but
that I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these
clothes. I’m wrong in these clothes. I’m wrong out of the forge, the
kitchen, or off th’ meshes. You won’t find half so much fault in me if
you think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer in my hand, or even
my pipe. You won’t find half so much fault in me if, supposing as you
should ever wish to see me, you come and put your head in at the forge
window and see Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in the old
burnt apron, sticking to the old work. I’m awful dull, but I hope I’ve
beat out something nigh the rights of this at last.
“I think its liquid aggravation that circulates through his veins, and not regular blood”
'Liveliness is a pleasant thing--when it don't lead to spending money.
An't it?' asked Mr Jonas.
'Very much so, indeed,' said Cherry, with a demureness of manner that
gave a very disinterested character to her assent.
'Such liveliness as yours I mean, you know,' observed Mr Jonas, as he
nudged her with his elbow. 'I should have come to see you before, but I
didn't know where you was. How quick you hurried off, that morning!'
'I was amenable to my papa's directions,' said Miss Charity.
'I wish he had given me his direction,' returned her cousin, 'and then
I should have found you out before. Why, I shouldn't have found you even
now, if I hadn't met him in the street this morning. What a sleek, sly
chap he is! Just like a tomcat, an't he?'
'I must trouble you to have the goodness to speak more respectfully of
my papa, Mr Jonas,' said Charity. 'I can't allow such a tone as that,
even in jest.'
'Ecod, you may say what you like of MY father, then, and so I give you
leave,' said Jonas. 'I think it's liquid aggravation that circulates
through his veins, and not regular blood. How old should you think my
father was, cousin?'
'Old, no doubt,' replied Miss Charity; 'but a fine old gentleman.'
'A fine old gentleman!' repeated Jonas, giving the crown of his hat an
angry knock. 'Ah! It's time he was thinking of being drawn out a little
finer too. Why, he's eighty!'
'Is he, indeed?' said the young lady.
'And ecod,' cried Jonas, 'now he's gone so far without giving in, I
don't see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. Why,
a man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone
more. Where's his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying
in the face of the Bible like that? Threescore-and-ten's the mark, and
no man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what's expected of him,
has any business to live longer.'
Is any one surprised at Mr Jonas making such a reference to such a
book for such a purpose? Does any one doubt the old saw, that the Devil
(being a layman) quotes Scripture for his own ends?
“There were times when he could not read the face he had studied so long, and when this lonely girl was a greater mystery to him than any women of the world...”
He then returned with
promptitude to the national cinder-heap, and resumed his sifting for the
odds and ends he wanted, and his throwing of the dust about into the eyes
of other people who wanted other odds and ends—in fact resumed his
parliamentary duties.
In the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept unwinking watch and ward. Separated
from her staircase, all the week, by the length of iron road dividing
Coketown from the country house, she yet maintained her cat-like
observation of Louisa, through her husband, through her brother, through
James Harthouse, through the outsides of letters and packets, through
everything animate and inanimate that at any time went near the stairs.
‘Your foot on the last step, my lady,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, apostrophizing
the descending figure, with the aid of her threatening mitten, ‘and all
your art shall never blind me.’
Art or nature though, the original stock of Louisa’s character or the
graft of circumstances upon it,—her curious reserve did baffle, while it
stimulated, one as sagacious as Mrs. Sparsit. There were times when Mr.
James Harthouse was not sure of her. There were times when he could not
read the face he had studied so long; and when this lonely girl was a
greater mystery to him, than any woman of the world with a ring of
satellites to help her.
So the time went on; until it happened that Mr. Bounderby was called away
from home by business which required his presence elsewhere, for three or
four days. It was on a Friday that he intimated this to Mrs. Sparsit at
the Bank, adding: ‘But you’ll go down to-morrow, ma’am, all the same.
You’ll go down just as if I was there. It will make no difference to
you.’
‘Pray, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, reproachfully, ‘let me beg you not to
say that. Your absence will make a vast difference to me, sir, as I
think you very well know.’
‘Well, ma’am, then you must get on in my absence as well as you can,’
said Mr. Bounderby, not displeased.
‘Mr. Bounderby,’ retorted Mrs. Sparsit, ‘your will is to me a law, sir;
otherwise, it might be my inclination to dispute your kind commands, not
feeling sure that it will be quite so agreeable to Miss Gradgrind to
receive me, as it ever is to your own munificent hospitality. But you
shall say no more, sir.
“Lord, keep my memory green.”
William goes and finds, this very
night, when she was coming home (why it’s not above a couple of hours
ago), a creature more like a young wild beast than a young child,
shivering upon a door-step. What does Mrs. William do, but brings it
home to dry it, and feed it, and keep it till our old Bounty of food and
flannel is given away, on Christmas morning! If it ever felt a fire
before, it’s as much as ever it did; for it’s sitting in the old Lodge
chimney, staring at ours as if its ravenous eyes would never shut again.
It’s sitting there, at least,” said Mr. William, correcting himself, on
reflection, “unless it’s bolted!”
“Heaven keep her happy!” said the Chemist aloud, “and you too, Philip!
and you, William! I must consider what to do in this. I may desire to
see this student, I’ll not detain you any longer now. Good-night!”
“I thank’ee, sir, I thank’ee!” said the old man, “for Mouse, and for my
son William, and for myself. Where’s my son William? William, you take
the lantern and go on first, through them long dark passages, as you did
last year and the year afore. Ha ha! _I_ remember—though I’m
eighty-seven! ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ It’s a very good prayer,
Mr. Redlaw, that of the learned gentleman in the peaked beard, with a
ruff round his neck—hangs up, second on the right above the panelling, in
what used to be, afore our ten poor gentlemen commuted, our great Dinner
Hall. ‘Lord, keep my memory green!’ It’s very good and pious, sir.
Amen! Amen!”
As they passed out and shut the heavy door, which, however carefully
withheld, fired a long train of thundering reverberations when it shut at
last, the room turned darker.
As he fell a musing in his chair alone, the healthy holly withered on the
wall, and dropped—dead branches.
As the gloom and shadow thickened behind him, in that place where it had
been gathering so darkly, it took, by slow degrees,—or out of it there
came, by some unreal, unsubstantial process—not to be traced by any human
sense,—an awful likeness of himself!
Ghastly and cold, colourless in its leaden face and hands, but with his
features, and his bright eyes, and his grizzled hair, and dressed in the
gloomy shadow of his dress, it came into his terrible appearance of
existence, motionless, without a sound.
“You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”
The Laird of Auchinleck now is
not near so great a man as the Laird of Auchinleck was a hundred years
ago[499].
I told him, that one of my ancestors never went from home without being
attended by thirty men on horseback. Johnson's shrewdness and spirit of
enquiry were exerted upon every occasion. 'Pray (said he,) how did your
ancestor support his thirty men and thirty horses, when he went at a
distance from home, in an age when there was hardly any money in
circulation?' I suggested the same difficulty to a friend, who mentioned
Douglas's going to the Holy Land with a numerous train of followers.
Douglas could, no doubt, maintain followers enough while living upon his
own lands, the produce of which supplied them with food; but he could
not carry that food to the Holy Land; and as there was no commerce by
which he could be supplied with money, how could he maintain them in
foreign countries?
I suggested a doubt, that if I were to reside in London, the exquisite
zest with which I relished it in occasional visits might go off, and I
might grow tired of it. JOHNSON. 'Why, Sir, you find no man, at all
intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is
tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that
life can afford[500].'
To obviate his apprehension, that by settling in London I might desert
the seat of my ancestors, I assured him, that I had old feudal
principles to a degree of enthusiasm; and that I felt all the _dulcedo_
of the _natale solum_[501]. I reminded him, that the Laird of Auchinleck
had an elegant house, in front of which he could ride ten miles forward
upon his own territories, upon which he had upwards of six hundred
people attached to him; that the family seat was rich in natural
romantick beauties of rock, wood, and water; and that in my 'morn of
life[502],' I had appropriated the finest descriptions in the ancient
Classicks to certain scenes there, which were thus associated in my
mind. That when all this was considered, I should certainly pass a part
of the year at home, and enjoy it the more from variety, and from
bringing with me a share of the intellectual stores of the metropolis.
He listened to all this, and kindly 'hoped it might be as I now
supposed.'
He said, 'A country gentleman should bring his lady to visit London as
soon as he can, that they may have agreeable topicks for conversation
when they are by themselves.
“Accidents will occur in the best-regulated families”
Crupp,
after frying the soles, was taken ill. Because we broke down at that
point. The leg of mutton came up very red within, and very pale without:
besides having a foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over
it, as if if had had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen
fireplace. But we were not in condition to judge of this fact from the
appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as the ‘young gal’ had dropped it all
upon the stairs--where it remained, by the by, in a long train, until it
was worn out. The pigeon-pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie: the
crust being like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full
of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath. In short, the
banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite unhappy--about
the failure, I mean, for I was always unhappy about Dora--if I had not
been relieved by the great good humour of my company, and by a bright
suggestion from Mr. Micawber.
‘My dear friend Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘accidents will occur
in the best-regulated families; and in families not regulated by that
pervading influence which sanctifies while it enhances the--a--I would
say, in short, by the influence of Woman, in the lofty character of
Wife, they may be expected with confidence, and must be borne with
philosophy. If you will allow me to take the liberty of remarking that
there are few comestibles better, in their way, than a Devil, and that
I believe, with a little division of labour, we could accomplish a good
one if the young person in attendance could produce a gridiron, I would
put it to you, that this little misfortune may be easily repaired.’
There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my morning rasher of
bacon was cooked. We had it in, in a twinkling, and immediately applied
ourselves to carrying Mr. Micawber’s idea into effect. The division of
labour to which he had referred was this:--Traddles cut the mutton into
slices; Mr. Micawber (who could do anything of this sort to perfection)
covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne; I put them on
the gridiron, turned them with a fork, and took them off, under Mr.
“A silent look of affection and regard when all other eyes are turned coldly away--the consciousness that we possess the sympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted us--is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase, or power bestow.”
The healthy, strong-
made man, who could have borne almost any fatigue of active exertion,
was wasting beneath the close confinement and unhealthy atmosphere of a
crowded prison. The slight and delicate woman was sinking beneath the
combined effects of bodily and mental illness. The child's young heart
was breaking.
'Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girl
had removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband's
imprisonment; and though the change had been rendered necessary by their
increasing poverty, she was happier now, for she was nearer him. For two
months, she and her little companion watched the opening of the gate as
usual. One day she failed to come, for the first time. Another morning
arrived, and she came alone. The child was dead.
'They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man's bereavements, as a
happy release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief from
expense to the survivor--they little know, I say, what the agony of
those bereavements is. A silent look of affection and regard when all
other eyes are turned coldly away--the consciousness that we possess the
sympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted us--is
a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth
could purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at his parents' feet
for hours together, with his little hands patiently folded in each
other, and his thin wan face raised towards them. They had seen him pine
away, from day to day; and though his brief existence had been a joyless
one, and he was now removed to that peace and rest which, child as he
was, he had never known in this world, they were his parents, and his
loss sank deep into their souls.
'It was plain to those who looked upon the mother's altered face, that
death must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Her
husband's fellow-prisoners shrank from obtruding on his grief and
misery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previously
occupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him; and
lingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed slowly away.
'She had fainted one evening in her husband's arms, and he had borne her
to the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light of the
moon falling full upon her face, showed him a change upon her features,
which made him stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless infant.
“Look round and round upon this bare bleak plain, and see even here, upon a winters day, how beautiful the shadows are! Alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. The loveliest things in life, Tom, are but shadows; and they come and go, and change and fade away, as rapidly as these!”
when were they so good-humouredly and
merrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they
turned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and,
facing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of
ruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it
engendered? Better than the gig! Why, here is a man in a gig coming
the same way now. Look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand,
chafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those
marble toes of his upon the foot-board. Ha, ha, ha! Who would exchange
this rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its
pace were twenty miles for one?
Better than the gig! No man in a gig could have such interest in the
milestones. No man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry
users of their legs. How, as the wind sweeps on, upon these breezy
downs, it tracks its flight in darkening ripples on the grass, and
smoothest shadows on the hills! Look round and round upon this bare
bleak plain, and see even here, upon a winter's day, how beautiful
the shadows are! Alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. The
loveliest things in life, Tom, are but shadows; and they come and go,
and change and fade away, as rapidly as these!
Another mile, and then begins a fall of snow, making the crow, who skims
away so close above the ground to shirk the wind, a blot of ink upon the
landscape. But though it drives and drifts against them as they walk,
stiffening on their skirts, and freezing in the lashes of their eyes,
they wouldn't have it fall more sparingly, no, not so much as by a
single flake, although they had to go a score of miles. And, lo! the
towers of the Old Cathedral rise before them, even now! and by-and-bye
they come into the sheltered streets, made strangely silent by their
white carpet; and so to the Inn for which they are bound; where they
present such flushed and burning faces to the cold waiter, and are so
brimful of vigour, that he almost feels assaulted by their presence;
and, having nothing to oppose to the attack (being fresh, or rather
stale, from the blazing fire in the coffee-room), is quite put out of
his pale countenance.
A famous Inn! the hall a very grove of dead game, and dangling joints
of mutton; and in one corner an illustrious larder, with glass doors,
developing cold fowls and noble joints, and tarts wherein the raspberry
jam coyly withdrew itself, as such a precious creature should, behind a
lattice work of pastry.
“Take nothing on its looks; take everything on evidence. Theres no better rule.”
he asked
me, with his head on one side, and not looking at me, but looking in a
listening way at the floor. “Told would seem to imply verbal
communication. You can’t have verbal communication with a man in New
South Wales, you know.”
“I will say, informed, Mr. Jaggers.”
“Good.”
“I have been informed by a person named Abel Magwitch, that he is the
benefactor so long unknown to me.”
“That is the man,” said Mr. Jaggers, “in New South Wales.”
“And only he?” said I.
“And only he,” said Mr. Jaggers.
“I am not so unreasonable, sir, as to think you at all responsible for
my mistakes and wrong conclusions; but I always supposed it was Miss
Havisham.”
“As you say, Pip,” returned Mr. Jaggers, turning his eyes upon me
coolly, and taking a bite at his forefinger, “I am not at all
responsible for that.”
“And yet it looked so like it, sir,” I pleaded with a downcast heart.
“Not a particle of evidence, Pip,” said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head
and gathering up his skirts. “Take nothing on its looks; take
everything on evidence. There’s no better rule.”
“I have no more to say,” said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for
a little while. “I have verified my information, and there’s an end.”
“And Magwitch—in New South Wales—having at last disclosed himself,”
said Mr. Jaggers, “you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my
communication with you, I have always adhered to the strict line of
fact. There has never been the least departure from the strict line of
fact. You are quite aware of that?”
“Quite, sir.”
“I communicated to Magwitch—in New South Wales—when he first wrote to
me—from New South Wales—the caution that he must not expect me ever to
deviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him
another caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his
letter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I
cautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all
likely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his
natural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be
an act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the
law.
“Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigor. With such people the gray head is but the impression of the old fellows hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.”
What do you mean by galloping along the king's highway like
that, eh?'
'Give me the light,' returned the traveller, snatching it from his hand,
'and don't ask idle questions of a man who is in no mood for talking.'
'If you had said you were in no mood for talking before, I should
perhaps have been in no mood for lighting,' said the voice. 'Hows'ever
as it's the poor horse that's damaged and not you, one of you is welcome
to the light at all events--but it's not the crusty one.'
The traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the light
near to his panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb and carcass.
Meanwhile, the other man sat very composedly in his vehicle, which was
a kind of chaise with a depository for a large bag of tools, and watched
his proceedings with a careful eye.
The looker-on was a round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a double chin,
and a voice husky with good living, good sleeping, good humour, and good
health. He was past the prime of life, but Father Time is not always a
hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays
his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men
and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young
and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression
of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle
but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.
The person whom the traveller had so abruptly encountered was of
this kind: bluff, hale, hearty, and in a green old age: at peace with
himself, and evidently disposed to be so with all the world. Although
muffled up in divers coats and handkerchiefs--one of which, passed over
his crown, and tied in a convenient crease of his double chin, secured
his three-cornered hat and bob-wig from blowing off his head--there
was no disguising his plump and comfortable figure; neither did certain
dirty finger-marks upon his face give it any other than an odd and
comical expression, through which its natural good humour shone with
undiminished lustre.
'He is not hurt,' said the traveller at length, raising his head and the
lantern together.
'You have found that out at last, have you?' rejoined the old man. 'My
eyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn't change with you.'
'What do you mean?'
'Mean! I could have told you he wasn't hurt, five minutes ago. Give me
the light, friend; ride forward at a gentler pace; and good night.
“There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.”
Pickwick, his countenance
lighted up with smiles, which the heart of no man, woman, or child,
could resist: himself the happiest of the group: shaking hands, over and
over again, with the same people, and when his own hands were not so
employed, rubbing them with pleasure: turning round in a different
direction at every fresh expression of gratification or curiosity, and
inspiring everybody with his looks of gladness and delight.
Breakfast is announced. Mr. Pickwick leads the old lady (who has been
very eloquent on the subject of Lady Tollimglower) to the top of a long
table; Wardle takes the bottom; the friends arrange themselves on either
side; Sam takes his station behind his master's chair; the laughter and
talking cease; Mr. Pickwick, having said grace, pauses for an instant
and looks round him. As he does so, the tears roll down his cheeks, in
the fullness of his joy.
Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed
happiness, of which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our
transitory existence here. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its
lights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have
better eyes for the darkness than for the light. We, who have no such
optical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the
visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of
the world is blazing full upon them.
It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even
the prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the
course of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create
imaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the
full extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an
account of them besides.
In compliance with this custom--unquestionably a bad one--we subjoin a
few biographical words, in relation to the party at Mr. Pickwick's
assembled.
Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, being fully received into favour by the old
gentleman, were shortly afterwards installed in a newly-built house, not
half a mile from Mr. Pickwick's.
“Nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, it is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy that we can scarcely mark their progress.”
Occasionally, in some low spots they
came upon patches of mist which the sun had not yet driven from their
strongholds; but these were soon passed, and as they laboured up the
hills beyond, it was pleasant to look down, and see how the sluggish
mass rolled heavily off, before the cheering influence of day. A broad,
fine, honest sun lighted up the green pastures and dimpled water
with the semblance of summer, while it left the travellers all the
invigorating freshness of that early time of year. The ground seemed
elastic under their feet; the sheep-bells were music to their ears; and
exhilarated by exercise, and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with
the strength of lions.
The day wore on, and all these bright colours subsided, and assumed
a quieter tint, like young hopes softened down by time, or youthful
features by degrees resolving into the calm and serenity of age. But
they were scarcely less beautiful in their slow decline, than they had
been in their prime; for nature gives to every time and season some
beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to
the grave, is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy, that we
can scarcely mark their progress.
To Godalming they came at last, and here they bargained for two humble
beds, and slept soundly. In the morning they were astir: though
not quite so early as the sun: and again afoot; if not with all the
freshness of yesterday, still, with enough of hope and spirit to bear
them cheerily on.
It was a harder day's journey than yesterday's, for there were long and
weary hills to climb; and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal
easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated
perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that
perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.
They walked upon the rim of the Devil's Punch Bowl; and Smike listened
with greedy interest as Nicholas read the inscription upon the stone
which, reared upon that wild spot, tells of a murder committed there by
night. The grass on which they stood, had once been dyed with gore;
and the blood of the murdered man had run down, drop by drop, into
the hollow which gives the place its name.
“Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers, and are fatuous preservers of youthful looks”
It was not very long, you may be sure, before Joe Willet and Dolly
Varden were made husband and wife, and with a handsome sum in bank (for
the locksmith could afford to give his daughter a good dowry), reopened
the Maypole. It was not very long, you may be sure, before a red-faced
little boy was seen staggering about the Maypole passage, and kicking up
his heels on the green before the door. It was not very long, counting
by years, before there was a red-faced little girl, another red-faced
little boy, and a whole troop of girls and boys: so that, go to Chigwell
when you would, there would surely be seen, either in the village
street, or on the green, or frolicking in the farm-yard--for it was a
farm now, as well as a tavern--more small Joes and small Dollys than
could be easily counted. It was not a very long time before these
appearances ensued; but it WAS a VERY long time before Joe looked five
years older, or Dolly either, or the locksmith either, or his wife
either: for cheerfulness and content are great beautifiers, and are
famous preservers of youthful looks, depend upon it.
It was a long time, too, before there was such a country inn as the
Maypole, in all England: indeed it is a great question whether there has
ever been such another to this hour, or ever will be. It was a long time
too--for Never, as the proverb says, is a long day--before they forgot
to have an interest in wounded soldiers at the Maypole, or before Joe
omitted to refresh them, for the sake of his old campaign; or before
the serjeant left off looking in there, now and then; or before they
fatigued themselves, or each other, by talking on these occasions of
battles and sieges, and hard weather and hard service, and a thousand
things belonging to a soldier's life. As to the great silver snuff-box
which the King sent Joe with his own hand, because of his conduct in the
Riots, what guest ever went to the Maypole without putting finger and
thumb into that box, and taking a great pinch, though he had never taken
a pinch of snuff before, and almost sneezed himself into convulsions
even then?
“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
started from his eyes.
“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evrémonde, but I have done nothing. I
am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
Citizen Evrémonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”
As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
“I heard you were released, Citizen Evrémonde. I hoped it was true?”
“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”
“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde, will you let me hold your
hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
more courage.”
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
fingers, and touched his lips.
“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.
“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”
“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
*****
The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”
The papers are handed out, and read.
“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”
This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
pointed out.
“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
Greatly too much for him.
“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”
This is she.
“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evrémonde; is it not?”
It is.
“Hah! Evrémonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
This is she?”
She and no other.
“Kiss me, child of Evrémonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
something new in thy family; remember it!
“Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which lights grim care and stern reality on their daily pilgrimage through the world.”
As they lay closely packed
together, covered, for warmth's sake, with their patched and ragged
clothes, little could be distinguished but the sharp outlines of pale
faces, over which the sombre light shed the same dull heavy colour;
with, here and there, a gaunt arm thrust forth: its thinness hidden by
no covering, but fully exposed to view, in all its shrunken ugliness.
There were some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and
clenched hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect
of dead bodies than of living creatures; and there were others coiled up
into strange and fantastic postures, such as might have been taken for
the uneasy efforts of pain to gain some temporary relief, rather than
the freaks of slumber. A few--and these were among the youngest of the
children--slept peacefully on, with smiles upon their faces, dreaming
perhaps of home; but ever and again a deep and heavy sigh, breaking the
stillness of the room, announced that some new sleeper had awakened to
the misery of another day; and, as morning took the place of night, the
smiles gradually faded away, with the friendly darkness which had given
them birth.
Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth
in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which
lights grim care and stern reality on their daily pilgrimage through the
world.
Nicholas looked upon the sleepers; at first, with the air of one who
gazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has lost none of its
sorrowful effect in consequence; and, afterwards, with a more intense
and searching scrutiny, as a man would who missed something his eye was
accustomed to meet, and had expected to rest upon. He was still occupied
in this search, and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his
quest, when the voice of Squeers was heard, calling from the bottom of
the stairs.
'Now then,' cried that gentleman, 'are you going to sleep all day, up
there--'
'You lazy hounds?' added Mrs. Squeers, finishing the sentence, and
producing, at the same time, a sharp sound, like that which is
occasioned by the lacing of stays.
'We shall be down directly, sir,' replied Nicholas.
'Down directly!' said Squeers. 'Ah! you had better be down directly, or
I'll be down upon some of you in less. Where's that Smike?'
Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no answer.
“Subdue your appetites, my dears, and youve conquered human nature”
that's the milk and water, is it, William?' said Squeers. 'Very
good; don't forget the bread and butter presently.'
At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little boys
looked very eager, and followed the waiter out, with their eyes;
meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water.
'Ah!' said that gentleman, smacking his lips, 'here's richness! Think of
the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this,
little boys. A shocking thing hunger, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?'
'Very shocking, sir,' said Nicholas.
'When I say number one,' pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the
children, 'the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink;
and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we
come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?'
'Yes, sir,' cried all the little boys with great eagerness.
'That's right,' said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast;
'keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears,
and you've conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength
of mind, Mr. Nickleby,' said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and
speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.
Nicholas murmured something--he knew not what--in reply; and the little
boys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which
had by this time arrived), and every morsel which Mr. Squeers took into
his mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation.
'Thank God for a good breakfast,' said Squeers, when he had finished.
'Number one may take a drink.'
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make
him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who
gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process
was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.
'And now,' said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for
three into as many portions as there were children, 'you had better look
sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two,
and then every boy leaves off.
“Polly put the kettle on, well all have tea”
A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of
position on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open and
intently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection on the
part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to time, 'Polly put
the ket--' and there stop short, forgetting the remainder, and go off in
a doze again.
After a long interval, Barnaby's breathing grew more deep and regular,
and his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet spirit of the raven
interposed. 'Polly put the ket--' cried Grip, and his master was broad
awake again.
At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk
upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable
alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller,
really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he
muttered in a sepulchral voice, 'Polly put the ket--' but very drowsily,
and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.
The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The man
glided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.
'--tle on,' cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much
excited. '--tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have
tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah,
hurrah! I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep up your
spirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle, I'm
a--Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.'
They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from the
grave.
But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards the
fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it.
The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for a
moment, and then she motioned him towards the door.
'Stay,' he whispered. 'You teach your son well.'
'I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night. Depart instantly, or
I will rouse him.'
'You are free to do so. Shall I rouse him?'
'You dare not do that.'
'I dare do anything, I have told you. He knows me well, it seems. At
least I will know him.'
'Would you kill him in his sleep?' cried the widow, throwing herself
between them.
'Woman,' he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside, 'I
would see him nearer, and I will.
“I never could have done what I have done without the habits of punctuality, order, and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one subject at a time.”
I occasionally wished I could venture to hint to Miss
Lavinia, that she treated the darling of my heart a little too much like
a plaything; and I sometimes awoke, as it were, wondering to find that
I had fallen into the general fault, and treated her like a plaything
too--but not often.
CHAPTER 42. MISCHIEF
I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this manuscript
is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at that tremendous
short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in my sense of
responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add, to what I have
already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a
patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me,
and which I know to be the strong part of my character, if it have any
strength at all, that there, on looking back, I find the source of my
success. I have been very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have
worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well; but I never could
have done what I have done, without the habits of punctuality, order,
and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one
object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon
its heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows I write this, in no spirit
of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do mine,
in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been a good man
indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents
neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted
feelings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating him. I
do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. My
meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have
tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself
to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in
small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed
it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from
the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and
hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on this
earth.
