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 David Copperf ield, a reading, in five cha 
 
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DAVID COPPERFIELD: 
 A READING. 
 
Two hundred and seventy-five copies of this book 
 have been printed, of which two hundred and fifty 
 only are for sale. 
 
Mrs. Winter. 
 
 Formrrhi Miss Maeia Sarah Beadnell ; 
 
 the betrothed of Charles Dickens, 18.30-3.3 ; 
 
 the Dora of David Copper field, and the 
 
 Flora of Little iJorrit. 
 
DAVID COPPERFIELD 
 
 a iReaHinff, in jfiDe Cbaptew, 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Reprinted from the privately printed edition of i%bb 
 
 WITH A NOTE ON THE ROMANTIC HISTORY OF 
 CHARLES DICKENS AND MARIA BEADNELL 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN HARRISON STONEHOUSE 
 
 Author of 
 
 ' Charles Dickens and Maria BeadnelP (the Dora 
 
 of 'David Copperfeld'), privately printed by the 
 
 Bibliophile Society, 'Boston, Massachusetts. 
 
 > 
 
 \ 
 
 LONDON 
 HENRY SOTHERAN ^ CO. 
 
 43, PICCADILLY, W. i, and 140, STRAND, W.C. 2 
 1921 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED B1 STKANGEWAYS AND SONS, 
 
 TOWEE STKEET, 
 
 CAMBEIDQB CIRCUS, W.O. 2. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A NOTE ON THE ROMANTIC HISTORY 
 OF CHARLES DICKENS AND MARIA 
 BEADNELL {the Dora of ' David Copper- 
 field '). 
 
 ' Among the mighty store of wonderful chains that are for 
 ever forging day and night in the vast iron-worJcs of time and 
 circumstance, there zcas one chain forged in the moment of that 
 small conclusion, riveted to the foundations of heaven and earth, 
 and gifted with invincible force to hold and drag.'' — Edwin Drood. 
 
 THE present reprint of the Reading Edition of 
 David Copperjield seems a fitting occasion on 
 which to refer to those events in the early life of 
 Charles Dickens on which he founded the story of 
 David Copperfield and his child-wife Dora, and to 
 place on record a brief and authentic account of the 
 documentary evidence relating to the subject, which 
 consists of letters written by Dickens himself to Mrs. 
 Winter, the lady who had been the original of Dora 
 Spenlow. These letters came direct from Mrs. 
 Winter's only surviving daughter. They are printed 
 in extenso in the volume published by the Bibliophile 
 Society of Boston, Massachusetts, in 1908.* 
 
 * Charles Dickens and Maria Beadnell (' Dora '). — Private 
 Correspondence between Charles Dickens and Mrs. Henry Winter 
 (nee Maria Beadnell), the original of Dora Spenlow in David 
 Copperjield and Flora Pinching in Little Dorrit. 
 
vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The story takes us back to London before rail- 
 way days in 1829, when it was still by no means an 
 unusual thing for principals to live over their busi- 
 ness premises. At this time there were living in 
 rooms over the well-known Bank of Messrs. Smith, 
 Payne, & Smiths' at numbers 1 & 2, Lombard Street, 
 two brothers, John and George Beadnell, the former 
 being the Bank manager ; the latter, who had started 
 life as an architect, also employed there, and succeed- 
 ing his brother in the management later on. George 
 Beadnell was married and had three daughters, 
 Margaret (afterwards Mrs. David Lloyd), Anne 
 (afterwards Mrs. Henry KoUe), and Maria Sarah, 
 the youngest, the original of Dora, who afterwards 
 married Henry Louis Winter ; both David Lloyd 
 and Henry Kolle were friends of Dickens, and the 
 prospect of the three young men marrying the thx-ee 
 sisters was no doubt an agreeable one for them all to 
 contemplate. Kolle was responsible for introducing 
 Dickens to the Beadnell family in May, 1830, when 
 Dickens fell in love with Maria at first sight, as 
 related in David Copperfield. He there says, ' All 
 was over in a moment. I had fulfilled my destiny. 
 I was a captive and a slave. 1 loved Dora Spenlow 
 to distraction.' 
 
 He was then eighteen years old, and had up to 
 November, 1828, been employed as a junior clerk in 
 the office of Mr. Edward Blackmore, at No. 1, Ray- 
 mond Buildings, at a salary of but fifteen shillings a 
 week. Recognising the fact that this work held little 
 opportunity of advancement in life, he determined to 
 follow the example of his father, who had recently 
 become a Parliamentary reporter for a newspaper. 
 
INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 and with that end in view applied himself to the 
 study of shorthand, and with his characteristic energy 
 ' tamed that savage stenographic mystery ' * so tho- 
 roughly that Mr. Beard, the first friend he made 
 when he entered the Gallery, was able to testify 
 that 'there never ivas such a shorthand writer.' t 
 He soon succeeded in getting employment in one of 
 the offices in Doctors' Commons, the home of 
 the deplorable Ecclesiastical Courts of the time, as 
 well as the mart for marriage licences, and in 1831 
 established himself in an office of his own at No. 5, 
 Bell Yard, Doctors' Commons. In the year follow- 
 ing he entered the Reporters' Gallery at the House 
 of Commons, and it was towards the end of this 
 period, just when his worldly prospects were greatly 
 improving, and his engagement to Maria Beadnell 
 was terminating (as he told the lady twenty -three 
 years later) that he often came from the House of 
 Commons in the early hours of the morning, to 
 wander past the house she was asleep in. 
 
 The letters referred to consist of two series. The 
 first contains five letters in Dickens's handwriting, 
 and one copy in Maria Beadnell's, all addressed from 
 No. 18, Bentinck Street, and undated, biit from in- 
 terior evidence written in the spring of 1833. In this 
 series Dickens appears in the character of a rejected 
 lover of Maria Beadnell, after a more or less recog- 
 nised courtship of between three and four years ; 
 he pleads eloquently, but with dignity and obvious 
 restraint, for a reconsideration of the position, and 
 shows at the same time something of the capricious 
 
 * David Copperjield, chapter xliii. 
 
 f Forster's Life of Dickens, chapter iii. 
 
viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 nature of his inamorata ; and in returning her love- 
 letters and tokens of aflfection with the first of the 
 letters he tells her that nothing would aflford him 
 more pleasure than to hear of the happiness of her 
 who was his first and last love ; and that as for himself 
 he was destitute of hope or comfort. In the last of 
 this series Dickens makes a final but futile appeal to 
 Maria Beadnell's better nature. 
 
 If any answer to this was received at all by 
 Dickens it was an unfavourable one, for the corre- 
 spondence ceased, and no communication whatever 
 passed between the one-time lovers, nor did they 
 meet again for over twenty years. How completely 
 Dickens broke away from the circle of friends that 
 he had shared with Maria Beadnell is shown by a 
 long autobiographical poem written by him in the 
 early part of his courtship of her, which is also pub- 
 lished in the Bibliophile volume : it is in the form 
 of a parody on Goldsmith's poem ' Retaliation.' In 
 this Dickens describes by name and personal cha- 
 racteristics the various members of the party of 
 friends with whom he was intimate at the home of 
 the Beadnells ; in the first part he compares each 
 of them as they sit at table to an article of food ; the 
 Misses Beadnell, Maria and her sister, ' are two nice 
 little Ducks, and very well dressed ' ; while he is a 
 young summer cabbage, wanting its heart, which he 
 had lost to Maria somewhat over a year ago. 
 
 Starting again he writes, with fuller detail, an 
 Epitaph for each of the guests ; these epitaphs are 
 remarkably interesting, as they furnish unmistakable 
 clues for the identity of several of the personages in 
 Sketches by Boz, David Copperfield, etc. ; even Maria 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 Beadnell's dog ' Daphne ' is not forgotten, nor the 
 fact that ' he would eat mutton chops if you cut off 
 the fat.'* 
 
 It is a significant fact that only one of the seven- 
 teen people whose personalities are so intimately 
 described in the poem is mentioned by name in any 
 Life of Dickens, or in any of his published letters — 
 so completely did he cut himself off from all con- 
 nexion with the Beadnell circle after the engagement 
 was broken off; though he did not hesitate to em- 
 body many of the members of it in his books, while 
 the recollection of his fruitless love for Maria re- 
 mained an abiding influence with him far on in life. 
 This is most plainly set out in the Second Series of 
 these letters, the first of which is dated February 10th, 
 1855 ; during the interval of twenty-two years, as 
 already stated, no communication whatever had passed 
 between the one-time lovers, f Thirteen letters to 
 Mrs. Winter of this later period are published in the 
 Bibliophile volume, some of which may safely be 
 said to be the finest that Dickens ever wrote, and are 
 of priceless biographical value. In opening his heart 
 unreservedly to his old lover he recapitulated the 
 story of his youthful romance in considerable detail. 
 
 * 'And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or 
 he'll die.' — David Copperfleld, chapter xxxvii. 
 
 ■\ ' In his youth he had ardently loved this woman, and 
 had heaped upon her all the locked-up wealth of his affection 
 and imagination. . . . Ever since that memorable time, though 
 he had, until the night of his arrival, as completely dismissed 
 her from any association with his Present or Future as if she had 
 been dead (which she might easily have been for anything he 
 knew), he had kept the old fancy of the Past, unchanged, in its 
 old sacred place.' — Littie Dorrit, chapter xiii. 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It seems Mrs. Winter made the first advance 
 towards reopening the correspondence, and told 
 Dickens in her letter that she had called on him 
 (though it never came to his knowledge at the time) 
 at Devonshire Terrace in 1848, on the occasion of the 
 death of his favourite sister Fanny, who had been a 
 friend and confidant of the lovers in the old days in 
 Lombard Street. 
 
 In his answer to this letter Dickens tells Mrs. 
 Winter how he was reading at his fireside on the 
 evening of February 18th, 1855, when her letter was 
 handed to him with some others, but not recognising 
 the writing of any private friend, he delayed opening 
 them and returned to his book. The sight of the 
 writing, however, had caused some curious mental 
 disturbance, and set up in his mind a train of thought 
 respecting his early life that he at last recognised as 
 being due to this letter, and when on looking again 
 at it he recognised Mrs. Winter's handwriting, he 
 opened it ' with the touch of my young friend David 
 Copperfield when he was in love.' 
 
 He goes on to say how well he remembers all the 
 circumstances connected with those times, and to- 
 wards the end of a long letter refers to the fact that 
 he is going to Paris in the morning, and that their 
 courtship had been interrupted by Maria herself 
 having been sent there to finish her education, and he 
 offers to discharge any commissions, or bring home 
 anything for her children from Paris. A later letter 
 shows that he bought some jewellery for Mrs. Winter 
 and her children ; and it is interesting now to know 
 that with his remarkable faculty for reproducing 
 his personal experiences in his writings he described 
 
INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 his interview with the jeweller in the pages of Little 
 Dorrit shortly afterwards. 
 
 He begins his second letter, written from Paris 
 four days later, by saying that he had half a mind 
 to address Mrs. Winter by her Christian name, a 
 suggestion apparently not unpleasing to the lady, 
 as his next letter begins ' My dear Maria.' It refers 
 to well-remembered incidents of the old days to- 
 gether, and his pleasure in having a share in her 
 gentler remembrances, and begs her to tell her child- 
 ren when they grow up that he loved their mother 
 very dearly when he was a boy. 
 
 He goes on to tell her that whatever of romance, 
 energy, passion, aspiration and determination belong 
 to him, was due entirely to her influence, and that 
 his early struggles with poverty and obscurity were 
 brightened by one perpetual idea of her, and he sug- 
 gests that she might have seen a faithful reflexion of 
 his own passion in that of David Copperfield, and in 
 the character of Dora something of her own self, and 
 a grace that might possibly be reproduced in her own 
 children in years to come. 
 
 The next letter, dated February 22nd, shows that 
 Mrs. Winter in her answer to the previous one had 
 given some explanations as to the reasons which 
 led to the young lovers' quarrel, which Dickens tells 
 her he read with great emotion, and adds that if she 
 had only explained the matter so lucidly then, he was 
 certain that ' the simple truth and energy which were 
 in my love would have overcome everything.' * 
 
 * Compare : ' I hope that real love and truth are stronger 
 in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.' — David 
 Copperfield, chapter xxxv. 'But in all reverses, whether for 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Later in this letter he refers to the fact that just 
 before writing David Copperfield he had started to 
 write his autobiography, but that when he came to 
 the period of their final quarrel he was unable 
 to continue the story and burned the rest. Here 
 we have for the first time the real explanation of 
 Dickens's hesitancy between writing his autobio- 
 graphy, modelled, as I have recently been able to 
 point out, on that of Thomas Holcroft, and compos- 
 ing his great autobiographical novel. 
 
 In his letter of February 10th, Dickens suggested 
 that his wife should call on Mrs. Winter and arrange 
 a day for herself and Mr. Winter to dine at Tavistock 
 House. Exactly when- and where this meeting of 
 the one-time lovers took place there is no evidence 
 to show — but, alas ! for the mutability of human 
 ideals, the rest of the letters prove that Dickens was 
 completely disillusioned when instead of the Dora 
 of his youth, he found that ' Flora, always tall,* had 
 grown to be very broad too, and short of breath ; 
 but that was not much. Flora, whom he had left 
 a lily, had become a peony ; but that was not much. 
 Flora, who had seemed enchanting in all she said 
 and thought, was diffuse and silly. That was much. 
 Flora, who had been spoiled and artless long ago, was 
 determined to be spoiled and artless now. That was a 
 fatal blow.' f In fact, ' The star of his own life from 
 boyhood had become, in a moment, putrid vapour.' J 
 
 good or evil, the words of Mr. Edson to the fair young partner 
 of his hfe were, ' Unchanging Love and Truth will carry us 
 through all '.' — Mrs. Lirriper's Legacy. 
 
 * Maria Beadnell was decidedly petite, and was known 
 amongst her friends in middle life as ' the pocket Venus.' 
 
 f Little Dorrit, chapter xiii. J Martin Chuzzlewit, chapter vi. 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 The rest of the letters after this become more 
 or less formal in tone, and their chief importance hes 
 in the interest which Dickens showed in the welfare 
 of Mrs. Winter's two children, one of whom died in 
 June, 1855. His very beautiful letter of condolence 
 on that occasion is published in The Letters of 
 Charles Dickens, with a brief note added by the 
 Editors to the effect that ' Mrs. Winter [was] a very 
 dear friend and companion of Charles Dickens in his 
 youth.' 
 
 It was this feeling of sympathy towards the 
 children of his old lover that prompted Dickens to 
 write, ' No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, 
 and knew her with a blameless though an unchanged 
 mind when she was a wife and a mother, but her 
 children had a strange sympathy with him — an 
 instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine 
 hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case, no 
 echoes tell ; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton 
 was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out 
 her chubby arms, and kept his place with her as 
 she grew.' * 
 
 'And there is one slight creature, Tom — her 
 child ; not Ruth's — whom thine eyes follow in the 
 romp and dance : who, wondering sometimes to 
 see thee look so thoughtful, runs to climb up on 
 thy knee, and put her cheek to thine : who loves 
 thee, Tom, above all the rest, if that can be: and 
 falling sick once, chose thee for her nurse, and never 
 knew impatience, Tom, when Thou wert by her side.'f 
 
 The same idea is beautifully elaborated in the 
 
 * Tale of Two Cities, book ii., chapter xxi. 
 f Martin Chuzzlewit, book ii., chapter xxix. 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 story of Beatrice Tresham and her child Polly, in 
 Mughy Junction, referred to below in connexion with 
 Lombard Street. 
 
 Mrs. Winter died at Southsea on September 20th, 
 1886, her husband having predeceased her in 1871 ; 
 her daughter, from whom the above-mentioned letters 
 were procured, died about three years ago. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS AND THE 
 LOMBARD STREETS. 
 
 The name of Lombard Street is generally taken 
 as a synonym for banking, and the only suggestion of 
 romance that it conveys is that of money-making; 
 but the knowledge that we now possess that Charles 
 Dickens, when a young man of seventeen to twenty- 
 one, was desperately in love with a girl residing 
 there, will for ever invest the historic home of 
 England's bankers with an interest undreamt of by 
 Walter Bagehot, and has enriched the annals of the 
 Money Market with the memory of his boyish 
 dreams, and the wonderful story of a passion which 
 was the inspiration of his early genius, and has pro- 
 vided us, in David Copperfield, with one of the most 
 beautiful prose idylls in the English language. 
 
 Lombard Street is mentioned several times by 
 Dickens. Little Frank, in Poor Relations, was ' very 
 fond of it,' but the most familiar references to its 
 neighbourhood occur in connexion with the ' George 
 
ERRATUM. 
 
 Page xiv., line 2.— Delete the words 'referred to below 
 in connexion with Lombard Street/ 
 
INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 and Vulture' Tavern and Hotel, George Yard, a 
 house very well known to Dickens during the period 
 of his courtship of Maria Beadnell. He made good 
 use of this knowledge when writing Pickwick three 
 years later, where he chose it as the favourite London 
 resort of Mr. Pickwick after he left Mrs. Bardell's 
 lodgings. It was also to the ' George and Wulture ' 
 that ' Samivel ' and his father, Tony Weller, repaired 
 after the latter had cashed his cheque for £530., the 
 balance of the second Mrs. Weller's funded savings, 
 at the famous bank of Smith, Payne, and Smith's. 
 
 There was however in Dickens's life a second 
 Lombard Street which has no place in his writings, 
 and forms the very antithesis to ' the golden Street 
 of the Lombards.' * It was but five years before his 
 introduction to the Beadnell circle, while he was 
 working as ' a little labouring hind 'f in Warren's 
 Blacking Factory at Hungerford Stairs, that he was, 
 at his own urgent request, removed from his lonely 
 and meagre lodging in Little College Street, Camden 
 Town, to a back-attic in Lant Street in the Borough 
 (the subsequent home of Mr. Bob Sawyer), which he 
 ' thought was a Paradise,' \ chiefly because it enabled 
 him to breakfast ' at home,' i.e. with the rest of the 
 family in the Marshalsea, where his father was then 
 imprisoned for debt. One of the mean streets running 
 immediately out of Lant Street is a thoroughfare 
 honoured with the proud name of Lombard Street ; § 
 
 * Little Dorrit, vol. ii., chapter xvi. 
 ■]• David Copperjield, chapter xi. 
 J Forster's Life of Dickens, vol. i., chapter ii. 
 § 'Lombard Street, Southwark, between Lant Street and 
 Queen Street ; originally a cant name for a street in the Mint, 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as this was seen and passed by Dickens daily, during 
 that dreadful time when ' he walked in darkness 
 under the lamps of Holborn, and was crucified at 
 Charing Cross,'* we can well imagine what a poignant 
 contrast the two streets and all that they stood for 
 would take in his sensitive mind when he had reached 
 those happier days in the City. 
 
 John Harrison Stonehouse. 
 
 Muswell Hill, 
 August, 1921. 
 
 in Southwark, a place formerly inhabited by fraudulent debtors.' 
 — Hatton, p. 48 ; Strype, book iv., p. 31 ; Wheatley and Cun- 
 ningham's London, vol. ii., p. 418. 
 
 * Chesterton's Charles Dickens, chapter iii. 
 
DAYID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 % gtRitins. 
 
 IS FIVE CHAPTERS. 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOMTBS AND S0N8» STAMFORD STREET. 
 
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 IN FIVE CHAPTBBS. 
 
 CHAPTER THE FIRST. 
 I HAD known Mr. Peggotty's house very well in 
 my childhood, and if it had been Aladdin's palace, 
 roc's egg and all, I could not have been more 
 charmed with it. It was an old black barge or 
 boat, high and dry on Yarmouth Sands, with an 
 iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney, and 
 smoking cosily. There was a delightful door cut 
 in the side, and it was roofed in, and there were 
 little windows in it. It was beautifully clean 
 and as tidy as possible. There were some lockers 
 and boxes, and there was a table, and there was a 
 Dutch clock, and there was a chest of drawers, 
 and there was a tea-tray with a painting on it, 
 representing a lady with a parasol taking a walk 
 
 B 2 
 
4 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 with a military-looking child who was trundling a 
 hoop. The tray was kept from tumbling down, by 
 a Bible ; and the tray, if it had tumbled down, 
 would have smashed a quantity of cups and 
 saucers and a teapot that were grouped around 
 the book. On the walls there were coloured 
 pictures of Abraham in red going to sacrifice 
 Isaac in blue ; and of Daniel in yellow being cast 
 into a den of green lions. Over the little mantel- 
 shelf was a picture of the ' Sar.ah Jane ' lugger 
 built at Sunderland, with a real little wooden 
 stern stuck on to it — a work of art combining com- 
 position with cai'pentry, which I had regarded 
 as one of the most enviable possessions the world 
 could afford. Mr. Peggotty, as honest a seafaring 
 man as ever breathed, dealt in lobsters, crabs, and 
 crawfish ; and a heap of those creatures, in a state 
 of wonderful conglomeration with one another and 
 never leaving off pinching whatever they laid hold 
 of, were usually to be found in a little wooden out- 
 house where the pots and kettles were kept. 
 
 As in my childhood, so in these days when I 
 
A UEAMNG. 5 
 
 was a young man, Mr. Peggotty's household con- 
 sisted of his orphan nephew Ham Peggotty ; his 
 adopted niece Little Emily, once my small sweet- 
 heart, now a beautiful young woman, on the eve 
 of being married to Ham ; and Mrs. Gummidge. 
 All three had been maintained at Mr. Peggotty's 
 sole charge for years and years ; and Mrs. Gum- 
 midge was the widow of his partner in a boat, 
 who had died poor. She was very grateful no 
 doubt, but she would have been more agreeable 
 company in a small habitation if she had hit 
 upon any other acknowledgment of the hospitality 
 she received than constantly complaining, as she 
 sat in the most comfortable corner by the fireside, 
 that she was " a lone lorn creetur and every think 
 went contrairy with her." 
 
 It was a dark evening, and rain was beginning 
 to fall, when I came within sight of Mr. Peg- 
 gotty's house, and of a light within it shining 
 through the window. A little floundering across 
 the sand, which was heavy, brought me to the 
 door, and I went in. 
 
b DAVID COrPERFIELD. 
 
 It looked very comfortable, indeed. Mr. Peg- 
 gotty had smoked his evening pipe, and there 
 were preparations for some supper by-and-by. 
 The fire was bright, the aslies were thrown up, 
 the locker was ready for little Emily in her old 
 place. In her own old place sat my dear old 
 nurse, Mr. Peggotty's sister, looking as if she had 
 never left it. Mx-s. Gummidge appeared to be 
 fretting a little, in her own corner ; and conse- 
 quently looked quite natural, too. 
 
 " You're first of the lot, Mas'r Davy ! " said 
 Mr. Peggotty, with a happy face. " Doen't keep 
 in that coat, sir, if it's wet." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Peggolty. It's quite dry." 
 
 " So 't is ! " said Mr. Peggotty, feeling my shoul- 
 ders. "As a chip! Sit ye down, sir. It ain't o' 
 no use saying welcome to you, but you're wel- 
 come, kind and hearty.'' 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. 
 Well, dear old nurse," said I, giving her a kiss. 
 " And how are you, old woman ? " 
 Here Mrs. Gummidge groaned. 
 
A BEADING. i 
 
 " Cheer up, my pretty mawther ! " said Mr. 
 Peggotty. 
 
 " No, no, Dan'l," returned Mrs. Gummidge. 
 " Nothink's nat'ral to me but to be lone and lorn." 
 
 After looking at Mbs. Gummidge for some mo- 
 ments, in sore distress of mind, Mr. Peggotty 
 glanced at the Dutch clock, rose, snufled the 
 candle, and put it in the window. 
 
 " Theer ! " said Mr. Peggotty, cheerily. " Theer 
 we are, Missis Gummidge ! " Mrs. Gummidge 
 slightly groaned again. " Lighted up, accordin' 
 to custom ! You're a wonderin' what's that's fur, 
 sir ! Well, it's fur our little Em'ly. You see, the 
 path ain't over light or cheerful arter dark ; and 
 when I'm here at the hour as she's a comin' home 
 from her needlework down-town, I puts the light 
 in the winder. That, you see, meets two objects. 
 She says, says Em'ly, ' Theer's home ! ' she says. 
 And likeways, says Em'ly, ' My uncle's theer ! ' Fur 
 if I ain't theer, I never have no light showed." 
 
 " You're a baby ! " said his sister ; very fond 
 of him for it, if she thought so. 
 
8 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 " Well," returned Mr. Peggotty, standing with 
 his legs pretty wide apart, and rubbing his hands 
 up and down them in his comfortable satisfaction, 
 as he looked alternately at us and at the fire, " I 
 doen't know but what I am. Not, you see, to look 
 at, but to — to consider on, you know. I doen't 
 care, bless you ! Now I tell you. When I go a 
 looking and looking about that theer pritty house 
 of our Em'ly's, all got ready for her to be married, 
 almost immediate, to that there blessed Tar- 
 paulin, our Ham, I'm — I'm Gormed — theer ! I 
 can't say no fairer — if I doen't feel as if the 
 littlest things was her, a'mostj I takes 'em up, 
 and I puts 'em down, and I touches of 'em as 
 delicate as if they was our Em'ly. So 't is with 
 her little bonnets and that. I couldn't see one 
 on 'em rough used a purpose — not fur the whole 
 wureld. There's a babby fur you, in the form of 
 a great Sea Porkypine ! " 
 
 Mr. Peggotty relieved his earnestness with a 
 roar of laughter. My old nurse and I both 
 laughed, but not so loud. 
 
A READING. 9 
 
 " It's my opinion, you See," said Mr, Peggotty, 
 with a delighted face, after some further rubbing 
 of his legs, " as this is along of my havin' played 
 with Em'ly so much when she was a child, and 
 havin' made believe as we was Turks, and French, 
 and sharks, and every wariety of forinners — bless 
 you, yes ; and lions and whales, and I don't know 
 what all! — when she warn't no higher than my 
 knee. I've got into the way on it, you know. 
 Why, this here candle, now ! I know wery well 
 that arter she's married and gone, I shall put that 
 candle theer, just the same as now. I know wery 
 well that when I'm here o' nights (and where else 
 should I live, bless your arts, whatever fortun' 
 I come into !) and she ain't here, or I ain't theer, 
 I shall put the candle in the winder, and sit afore 
 the fire, pretending I'm expecting of her, like as 
 I'm a doing now. If I don't believe it I'm a 
 shell-fish — biled too, and I can't say fairer than 
 that. There's a babby for you, in the form of a 
 Sea Porkypine ! Why, at the present minute, 
 when I see the candle sparkle up, I says to myself, 
 
10 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 ' She's a looking at it ! Em'ly's a coming ! ' There's 
 a babby for you, in the form of a Sea Porkypine ! 
 Right for all that," said Mr. Peggotty, stopping 
 in his roar, and smiting his hands together ; " fur 
 here she is " 
 
 No ; it was only Ham. The night should have 
 turned more wet since I came in, for he had a 
 large sou'wester hat on, slouched over his face. 
 
 " Where's Em'ly ? " said Mr. Peggotty. 
 
 Ham made a motion with his head, as if she 
 were outside. Mr. Peggotty took the light from 
 the window, trimmed it, put it on the table, and 
 was busily stirring the fire, when Ham, who had 
 not moved, said : 
 
 " Mas'r Davy, will you come out a minute, and 
 see what Em'ly and me has got to show you ? " 
 
 "We went out. As I passed him at the door, I 
 saw, to my astonishiiaent and fright, that he was 
 deadly pale. He pushed me hastily into the open 
 air, and closed the door upon us. Only upon us 
 two. 
 
 «' Ham ! What's the matter ? " 
 
A READING. 11 
 
 " Mas'r Davy ! — " Oh, , for his broken heart, 
 how dreadfully he wept ! 
 
 I was paralyzed by the sight of such grief. I 
 don't know what I thought, or what I dreaded. 
 I could only look at him. 
 
 " Ham ! Poor good fellow ! For Heaven's 
 sake tell me what's the matter ! " 
 
 " My love, Mas'r Davy — the pride and hope of 
 my art — her that I'd have died for, and would die 
 for now — she's gone ! " 
 
 "Gone?" 
 
 " Era'ly's run away ! Oh, Mas'r Davy, think how 
 she's run away, when I pray my good and gracious 
 God to kill her (her that is so dear above all things) 
 sooner than let her come to ruin and disgrace ! " 
 
 The face he turned up to the troubled sky, the 
 quivering of his clasped hands, the agony of his 
 figure, remain associated with that lonely waste 
 in my remembrance, to this hour. 
 
 " You're a scholar, and know what's right and 
 best. What am I to say, in-doors ? How am I 
 ever to break it to him, Mas'r Davy ? " 
 
12 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 I saw the door move, and instinctively tried to 
 hold the latch on the outside, to gain a moment's 
 time. It was too late, Mr. Peggotty thrust forth 
 his face : and never could I forget the change 
 that came upon it when he saw us, if I were to 
 live five hundred years. 
 
 I remember a great wail and cry, and the 
 women hanging about him, and we all standing in 
 the room ; I with a paper in my hand, which Ham 
 had given me ; Mr. Peggotty, with his vest torn 
 open, his hair wild, his face and lips quite white, 
 and blood trickling down his bosom (it had 
 sprung from his mouth, I think), looking fixedly 
 at me. 
 
 "Read it, su' ; slow, please. I doen't know as 
 I can understand." 
 
 In the midst of the silence of death, I read 
 thus, from the blotted letter Ham had given me. 
 In Emily's hand — 
 
 " 'When you, who love me so much better than 
 I ever have deserved, even when my mind was 
 innocent, see this, I shall be far away.' " 
 
A READING. 13 
 
 " I shall be fur away," he repeated slowly. 
 " Stop ! Em'ly fur away. Well ! " 
 
 " ' When I leave my dear home — my dear home 
 — oh, my dear home ! — in the morning,' " 
 — the letter bore date on the previous night : 
 
 "' — It will be never to come back, vinless he 
 brings me back a lady. This will be found at 
 night, many hours after, instead of me. Oh, if 
 you knew how my heart is torn. If even you, 
 that I have wronged so much, that never can 
 forgive me, could only know what I suffer ! I am 
 too wicked to write about myself. Oh, take com- 
 fort in thinking that I am so bad. Oh, for mercy's 
 sake, tell uncle that I never loved him half so 
 dear as now. Oh, don't remember how afi'ection- 
 ate and kind you have all been to me — don't 
 remember we were ever to be married — but try 
 to think as if I died when I was little, and was 
 buried somewhere. Pray Heaven that I am going 
 away from, have compassion on my uncle ! Tell 
 him that I never loved him half so dear. Be his 
 comfort. Love some good girl, that will be what I 
 
14 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 was once to uncle, and that will be true to you, and 
 worthy of you, and know no shame but me. God 
 bless all! I'll pray for all, often, on my knees. If he 
 don't bring me back a lady, and I don't pray for my 
 own self, I'll pray for all. My parting love to uncle. 
 My last tears, and my last thanks, for uncle ! ' " 
 
 That was all. 
 
 He stood, long after I had ceased to read, still 
 looking at me. At length I ventured to take his 
 hand, and to entreat him, as well as I could, to 
 endeavour to get some command of himself. He 
 replied, " I thankee, sir, I thankee ! " without 
 moving. 
 
 Ham spoke to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far 
 sensible of his affliction, that he wrung his hand ; 
 but, otherwise, he remained in the same state, and 
 no one dared to disturb him. 
 
 Slowly, at last, he moved his eyes from my face, 
 as if he were waking from a vision, and cast them 
 round the room. Then he said, in a low voice : 
 
 " Who's the man ? I want to know his name." 
 
 Ham glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock. 
 
A READING. 15 
 
 " There's a man suspected ; who is it ? " 
 
 " Mas'r Davy ! " implored Ham. " Go out a bit, 
 and let me tell him what I must. You doen't 
 ought to hear it, sir." 
 
 I felt the shock again. I sank down in a chair, 
 and tried to utter some reply ; but my tongue was 
 fettered, and my sight was weak. For I felt it 
 was my friend — the friend I had unhappily intro- 
 duced there — Steerforth, my old schoolfellow and 
 my friend. 
 
 " I want to know his name ! '' 
 
 " For some time past," Ham faltered, " there's 
 been a servant about here, at odd times. There's 
 been a gen'lm'n too. Both of 'em belonged to one 
 another." 
 
 Mr. Peggotty stood fixed as before, but now look- 
 ing at him. 
 
 " The servant was seen along with — our poor 
 gii'l — last night. He's been in hiding about here, 
 this week or over. He was thought to have gone, 
 but he was hiding. Doen't stay, Mas'r Davy 
 doen't ! " 
 
16 DAA'in COPPERFIELD. 
 
 I could not have moved if the house had been 
 about to fall upon me. 
 
 " A strange chay and horses was outside town, 
 this morning, on the Norwich road, a'most afore 
 the day broke. The servant went to it, and come 
 from it, and went to it again. When he went to 
 it again, Em'ly was nigh him. The t'other was 
 inside, Mas'r Davy's frend. He's the man." 
 
 "For the Lord's love," said Mr. Peggotty, falling 
 back, and putting out his hand, as if to keep off 
 what he dreaded. " Doen't tell me his name's 
 Steerforth ! " 
 
 " Mas'r Davy," exclaimed Ham, in a broken 
 voice, "it ain't no fault of yourn — and I am far 
 from laying of it to you — but it is your friend 
 Steerforth, and he's a damned villain ! " 
 
 Mr. Peggotty uttered no cry, and shed no tear, 
 and moved no more, until he seemed to wake 
 again, all at once, and pulled down his rough 
 coat from its peg in a corner. 
 
 " Bear a hand with this ! I'm struck of a heap, 
 and can't do it," he said, impatiently. " Bear 
 
A READING. 17 
 
 a hand, and help me. Well ! " when somebody 
 had done so. " Now give me that theer hat ! " 
 
 Ham asked him whither he was going ? 
 
 " I'm a going to seek my niece. I'm a goino- 
 to seek my Em'ly. I'm a going, first, to stave in 
 that theer boat as he gave me, and ' sink it where 
 I would have drownded him, as I'm a livin' soul, if 
 I had had one thought of what was in him ! As 
 he sat afore me, in that boat," he said, wildly, 
 holding out his clenched right hand, "as he sat 
 afore me, face to face, strike me down dead, but 
 I'd have drownded him, and thought it right ! — 
 I'm a going fur to seek my niece." 
 
 " Where ? '' cried Ham, interposing himself before- 
 the door. 
 
 "Anywhere! I'm a going to seek my niece 
 through the wureld I'm a going to find my poor 
 niece in her shame, and bring her back wi' my 
 comfort and forgiveness. No one stop me ! I tell 
 you I'm a going to seek my niece ! I'm a going 
 to seek her fur and wide ! " 
 
 " No, no ! " Mrs. Gummidge, came between them,. 
 
 C 
 
18 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 in a fit of crying. " No, no, Dan'l, not as you 
 are now. Seek her in a little while, my lone lorn 
 Dan'l, and that'll be but right ; but not as you 
 are now. Sit yc down, and give me your forgive- 
 ness for having ever been a worrit to you, Dan'l 
 — what have my contrairies ever been to this ! — 
 and let us speak a word about them times when 
 she was first a orphan, and when Ham was too, 
 and when I was a poor widder woman, and you 
 took me in. It'll soften your poor heart, Dan'l, 
 and you'll bear your sorrow better ; for you know 
 the promise, Dan'l, ' As you have done it unto one 
 of the least of these, you have done it unto me ; ' 
 and that can never fail under this roof, that's 
 been our shelter for so many, many year ! " 
 
 He was quite passive now ; and when I heard 
 him crying, the impulse that had been upon me 
 to go down upon my knees, and ask their pardon 
 for the desolation I had innocently caused, and 
 curse Steerforth, yielded to a better feeling. My 
 overcharged heart found the same relief, and I 
 cried too. 
 
A READING. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 At this period of my life I lived in my top 
 set of chambers in Buckingham Street, Strand, 
 London, and was over head and ears in love with 
 Dora. I lived principally on Dora and coffee. 
 My appetite languished and I was glad of it, for I 
 felt as though it would have been an act of ' 
 perfidy towards Dora to have a natural relish for 
 my dinner. I bought four sumptuous waistcoats 
 — not for myself ; I had no pride in them — for 
 Dora. I took to wearing straw-coloured kid gloves 
 in the streets. I laid the foundations of all the 
 corns I have ever had. If the boots I wore at 
 that period could only be produced and compared 
 with the natural size of my feet, they would show 
 in a most affecting manner what the state of my 
 heart was. 
 
 c2 
 
20 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 Mrs. Crupp, the laundtess of my chambers, must 
 have been a woman of penetration ; for, when this 
 attachment w^as but a few weeks old, she found 
 it out. She came up to me one evening when I 
 was very low, to ask (being afflicted with spasms) 
 if I could oblige her with a little incture of 
 cardamums, niixed with rhubarb and flavoured 
 with seven drops of the essence of cloves — or, 
 if I had not such a thing by me — with a little 
 brandy. As I had never even heard of the first 
 remedy, and always had the second in the closet, 
 I gave Mrs. Crupp a glass of the second ; which 
 (that I might have no suspicion of its being 
 devoted to any improper use) she began to take 
 immediately. 
 
 " Cheer up, sir,'' said Mrs. Crupp. " Excuse 
 me. I know what it is, sir. There's a lady in 
 the case." 
 
 " Mrs. Crupp ? " 
 
 " Oh, bless you ! Keep a good heart, sir ! 
 Never say die, sir ! If she don't smile upon 
 you, there's a many as will. You're a young 
 
A READING. 21 
 
 gentleman to be smiled on, Mr. Copperfull, and 
 you must learn your walue, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Crupp always called me Mr. Copperfull : 
 firstly, no doubt, because it was not my name ; 
 and secondly, I am inclined to think, in some 
 indistinct association with a washing-day. 
 
 " What makes you suppose there is any young 
 lady in the case, Mrs. Crupp ? " 
 
 •' Mr. Copperfull," said Mrs. Crupp, with a deal 
 of feeling, " I'm a mother myself. You don't eat 
 enough, sir, nor yet drink." 
 
 " Is that what you found your supposition on, 
 Mrs. Crupp*" 
 
 " Sir, I've laundressed other young gentlemen 
 besides yom'self. A young gentleman may be 
 over-careful of himself, or he may be under-careful 
 of himself. He may brush his hair too regular, 
 or too unregular. He may wear his boots much 
 too large for him, or much too small. That is 
 according as the young gentleman has his nat'ral 
 character formed. But let him go to which extreme 
 he may, sir, there's a young lady in both of 'em." 
 
22 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 Mrs. Crupp shook her head in such a deter- 
 mined manner, that I had not an inch of 'vantage 
 ground left. 
 
 " It was but the gentleman which died here 
 before yourself," said Mrs. Crupp, " that fell in 
 love — with a barmaid — and had his waistcoats 
 took in directly, though much swelled by drinking." 
 
 " Mrs. Crupp," said I, " I must beg you not 
 to connect the young lady in my case with a 
 barmaid, or anything of that sort, if you please." 
 
 " Mr. Copperfull, I'm a mother myself, and not 
 likely. I ask yotir pardon, sir, if I intrude. I 
 should never wish to intrude where I were not 
 welcome. But you are a young gentleman, Mr. 
 Copperfull, and my advice to you is, to cheer up, 
 sir, to keep a good heart, and to know your own 
 walue. If you was to take to something, sir ; 
 if you was to take to skittles, now, which is 
 healthy, you might find it divert your mind, and 
 do you good." 
 
 I turned it ofl;" and changed the subject by 
 informing Mrs. Crupp that I wished to entertain 
 
A READING. 23 
 
 at dinner next day, my esteemed friend Traddle?, 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Micawb^pr — And I,,-t!t)olE~~ttie 
 liberty of suggestin/a pair of solesja/^malT leg of 
 Biuttpti, and af^igeon me. Mrs. Crupp broke out 
 into rebellion onsaajt^rst bashfid hint in reference 
 to her cooking thev^nand joint,^d terrified me 
 by saying, " No ! No, sir ! You will not ask me 
 sich a thing, for you are better acquainted with 
 me than to suppose me capable of doing what I 
 cannot do with ampial satisfaction to my own 
 feelings ! " But, in the end, a compromise was 
 effected ; and Mrs. Crupp consented to achieve 
 this feat, on condition that I dined from home for 
 a fortnight afterwards. 
 
 I bought a second-hand dumb-waiter for the 
 dinner-party, in preference to re-engaging a 
 handy young man who had waited on me before ; 
 against whom 1 had conceived a prejudice, in 
 consequence of meeting him in the Strand, one 
 Sunday morning, in a waistcoat remarkably like 
 one of mine. A " young gal " whom I had pre- 
 viously employed on the motion of Mrs. Crupp 
 
24 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 >vas re-engaged ; but on the stipulation that she 
 should only bi-ing in the dishes, and then with- 
 draw to the landing-place, beyond the outer door ; 
 where a habit of sniffing she had contracted 
 would be lost upon the guests. 
 
 Having laid in the materials for a bowl of 
 punch, to be compounded by Mr. !Micawber ; 
 having provided a bottle of lavender-water, two 
 wax candles, a paper of mixed pins, and a pin- 
 cushion, to assist Mrs. Micawber in her toilette, at 
 my dressing-table ; having also caused the fire in 
 my bed-room to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber's 
 convenience ; and having laid the cloth with 
 my own hands ; I awaited the result with com- 
 posure. 
 
 At the appointed time, my thiee visitors 
 arrived together. Mr. Micawber with more shirt- 
 collar than usual, and a new ribbon to his eye- 
 glass ; Mrs. Micawber with her- cap in a whity- 
 brown paper parcel ; Traddles cariying the par- 
 cel, and supporting Mrs. Micawber on his arm. 
 They were all delighted with my residence. 
 
A READING. 25 
 
 When I conducted Mrs. Micawber to my dressing- 
 table, and she saw the scale on which it was 
 prepared for her, she was in such raptures, that 
 she called Mr. Micawbei- to come in and look. 
 
 " My dear Oopperfield," said Mr. Micawber, 
 " this is luxurious. This is a way of life which 
 reminds me of the period when I was myself in a 
 state of celibacy. I am at present established on 
 what may be designated as a small and unassum- 
 ing scale ; but, you are aware that I have, in the 
 course of my career, surmounted diflS.culties, and 
 conquered obstacles. You are no stranger to the 
 fact, that there have been periods of my life, 
 when it has been requisite that I should pause, 
 until cert ain expected even ts should turn up — 
 when it has been necessary that I should fall 
 back, before making what I trust I shall not be 
 accused of presumption in terming — a spring. 
 The present is one of those momentous stages in 
 the life of man. Yon fin d me, fallen back, Jor a 
 ggjetjigT-afid I have every reaswl to believe that a 
 vigorous leap will shortly be the result." 
 
26 DAVID COPI'ERFIELD. 
 
 To divert his thoughts, I informed Mr. Micaw- 
 ber that I relied upon him for a bowl of punch, 
 and led him to the lemons. I never saw a man so 
 thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance of 
 lemon-peel and sugar, the odour of burning rum, 
 and the steam of boiling water, as Mr. Micawber 
 did that afternoon. It was wonderful to see his 
 face shining at us out of a thin cloud of these 
 delicate fumes, as he stirred, and mixed, and 
 tasted, and looked as if he weie making, not mere 
 punch, but a fortune for his family down to the 
 latest posterity. As to Mrs. Micawber, I don't 
 know whetlier it was the effect of the cap, or the 
 lavender-water, or the pins, or the fire, or the 
 wax-candles, but she came out of my room, com- 
 paratively speaking, lovely. And the lark was 
 never gayer than that excellent woman. 
 
 I suppose — I never ventured to inqviire, but I 
 suppose — that Mrs. Crupp, after frying the soles, 
 was taken ill. Because we broke down at that 
 point. The leg of mutton came up, very red 
 within, and very pale without : besides having a 
 
A KEADIKG. 27 
 
 foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkle^ 
 over it, as if it had had a fall into ashesf~) But 
 we were not in a condition to judge-of^this fact 
 from the appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as 
 the " young gal " had dropped it all upon the 
 stairs. The'^geon-pie^vas not bad, but it was a 
 delusive pie : the crust being like a disappointing 
 head, phvenologically 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 fail- 
 ure, I mean, for I was always unhappy about 
 Dora — if I had not been relieved by the great 
 good-humour of my company. 
 
 " My dear friend Copperfield,'' said Mr. Micaw- 
 ber, " 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 
 
28 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 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 out, in a twinkling. Traddles cut the 
 mutton into slices ; Mr. Micawber 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. Micawber "s direc- 
 tion ; and Mrs. Micawber heated, and continually 
 stirred, some mushroom ketchup in a little sauce- 
 pan. When we had slices enough done to begin 
 upon, we fell-to, with our sleeves still tucked up 
 at the wrists, more slices sputtering and blazing 
 on the fire, and our attention divided between 
 the mutton on our plates, and the mutton then 
 preparing. 
 
A READING. 29 
 
 What with the novelty of this cookery, the 
 excellence of it, the bustle of it, the frequent 
 starting up to look after it, the frequent sitting 
 down to dispose of it as the crisp slices came off 
 the gridiron hot and hot, the being so busy, so 
 flushed with the fire, so amused, and in the midst 
 of such a tempting noise and savour, we reduced 
 the leg of mutton to the bone. My own appetite 
 came back miraculously. I am ashamed to record 
 it, but I really believe I forgot Dora for a little 
 while. 
 
 " Punch, my dear Copperfield,'' said Mr. Micaw- 
 ber, tasting it as soon as dinner was done, " like 
 time and tide, waits for no man. Ah ! it is at 
 the present moment in high flavour. My love, 
 will you give me your opinion ? " 
 
 Mrs. Micawber pronounced it excellent. 
 
 " Then I will drink," said Mr. Micawber, " if 
 my friend Copperfield will permit me to take that 
 social liberty, to the days when my friend Copper- 
 field and myself fought our way in the world side 
 by side. I may say, of myself and Copperfield, in 
 
30 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 words we have sung together before now — the 
 words of the immortal exciseman nurtured beyond 
 the Tweed — that 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes 
 And pu*d the gowans flne 
 
 — in a figurative point of view — on several occa- 
 sions. I am not exactly aware what gowans may 
 be, by-the-by, but I have no doubt that Copper- 
 field and myself would frequently have taken a 
 pull at them, if it had been feasible. My dear, 
 another glass ? " 
 
 Mrs. Micawber said it must be very little, but 
 we couldn't allow that, so it was a glassful. 
 
 " As we are quite confidential here, Mr. Copper- 
 field," said Mrs. Micawber sipping her punch, 
 " (Mr. Traddles being a part of our domesticity), 
 1 should much like to have your opinion on Mr. 
 Micawber's prospects. I have consulted branches 
 of my family on the course most expedient for 
 Mr. Micawber to take, and it was, that he should 
 immediately turn his attention to coals." 
 
 "To what, ma'am?" 
 
A KEAUING. 31 
 
 " To coals. To the coal trade. Mr. Micawber 
 was induced to think, on inquiry, that there 
 might be an opening for a man of his talent in 
 the MedVay Coal Trade. Then, as Mr. Micaw- 
 ber very properly said, the first step to be taken 
 clearly was, to go and see the Medway. Which we 
 went and saw. I say ' we,' Mr. Copperfield ; for 
 I never will desert Mr. Micawber. I am a wife 
 and mother, and I never will desert Mr. Micaw- 
 ber." 
 
 Traddles and I murmured our admiration. 
 
 "That," said Mrs. Micawber, "that, at least, 
 is mi/ view, my dear Mr. Copperfield and Mr. 
 Traddles, of the obligation which I took upon 
 
 myself when I repeated the irrevocable words " I 
 
 / 
 ,£mma, take thee, "V ^^kipsJ ^^J-Tead the service 
 
 over with a flat-candle, on the previous night, and 
 the conclusion I derived from it was that I never 
 could or would desert Mr. Micawber." 
 
 " My dear," said Mr. Micawber, a little impa- 
 tiently, " I am not conscious that you are ex- 
 pected to do anything of the sort." 
 
32 DAVID COPPERFIEI.D. 
 
 Traddles and I murmured our admiration and 
 approbation of Mrs. Micawber. 
 
 " We went," repeated Mrs. Micawber, " and 
 saw the Medway. My opinion of the coal trade 
 on that river, was, that it might require talent, 
 but that it certainly requires capital. Talent, 
 Mr. Micawber has ; capital, Mr. Micawber has 
 not. We saw, I thinic, the greater part of the 
 Medway ; and that was my individual conclusion. 
 My family were then of opinion that Mr. Micaw- 
 ber should turn his attention to corn — on commis- 
 sion. But corn, as I have repeatedly said to 
 Mr. Micawber, may be gentlemanly, but it is not 
 remunerative. Commission to the extent of two 
 and ninepence in a fortnight cannot, however 
 limited our ideas, be considered remunerative." 
 
 We were all agreed upon that. 
 
 " Then," said Mrs. Micawber, who prided her- 
 self on taking a clear view of things, and keeping 
 Mr. Micawber straight by her woman's wisdom, 
 when he might otherwise go a little crooked, 
 " then I naturally look round the world, and say,. 
 
A READING. 33 
 
 ' What is there in which a person of Mr. Micawr 
 ber's talent is likely to succeed ? ' And I exclude 
 doing anything on conunission, because commis- 
 sion is not a certainty. What is best suited to a 
 person of Mr. Micawber's peculiar temperament 
 is, I am convinced, a certainty,'' 
 
 Traddles and I both expressed, by a feeling 
 murmur, that this great discovery was no doubt 
 true of Mr. Micawber, and that it did him infinite 
 credit. 
 
 " I will not conceal from you, my dear Mr. Cop- 
 perfield, that I have long felt the Brewing busi- 
 ness to be particularly adapted to Mr. Micawber. 
 Look at Barclay and Perkins ! Look at $^man, 
 Hanbury,_and Buxton ! It is on that extensive 
 footing that Mr. Micawber, I know from my own 
 knowledge of him, is calculated to shine ; and the 
 profits, I am told, are e-NOR — mous ! But if Mr. 
 Micawber cannot get into those firms — ^which 
 decline to answer his letters, even when he ofiiers 
 his services in an inferior capacity — what is the 
 use of dwelling upon that idea ? None. I may 
 
 D 
 
34 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 have a conviction that Mr. Micawber's man- 
 ners — " 
 
 " Hem ! Really, my dear,'' interposed Mr. Mi- 
 'cawber. 
 
 " My love, be silent. I may have a conviction, 
 Mr. Copperfield, that Mr. Micawber's manners 
 peculiarly qualify him for the Banking business. 
 I may argue within myself, that if I had a deposit 
 at a banking-house, the manners of Mr. Micawber, 
 as representing that banking-house, would inspire 
 ■confidence, and extend the connexion. But if the 
 various banking-houses refuse to avail themselves 
 of Mr. Micawber's abilities, or receive the offer of 
 them with contumely, what is the use of dwelling 
 upon that idea? None. As to originating a 
 banking-business, I may know that there are 
 members of my family who, if they chose to 
 •place their money in Mr. Micawber's hands, 
 might found an establishment of* that description. 
 But if they do not choose to place their money 
 in Mr, Micawber's hands— which they don't — 
 what is the use of that ? Again I contend that 
 
A READING. 35 
 
 we are no farther advanced than we were 
 before." 
 
 I shook my head, and said, " Not a bit." Trad- 
 dies also shook his head, and said, " Not a bit." 
 
 " What do I deduce from this ? " Mrs. Micaw- 
 ber went on to say, still with the same air of put- 
 ting a case lucidly. " What is the conclusion, 
 my dear Mr. Copperfield, to which I am irre- 
 sistibly brought? Am I wrong in saying, it is 
 clear that we must live ? " 
 
 I answered, " Not at all ! " and Traddles an- 
 swered, " Not at all ! " and I found myself after- 
 wards sagely adding, alone, that a person must 
 either live or die. 
 
 " Just so," returned Mrs. Micawber. " It is 
 precisely that. Now I am convinced, myself, and 
 this I have pointed out to Mr. Micawber several 
 times of late, that things cannot be expected to 
 turn up of themselves. We must in a measure, 
 assist to turn them up. I may be wrong, but I 
 have formed that opinion." 
 
 Both Traddles and I applauded it highly. 
 
 d2 
 
36 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 " Very well," said Mrs. Micawber. " Then 
 what do I recommend ? Here is Mr. Micawber 
 with a variety of qualifications — with great 
 talent—" 
 
 " Really, my love." 
 
 " Pray, my dear, allow me to conclude. Here 
 is Mr. Micawber, with a variety of qualifications, 
 with great talent — I should say, with genius, but 
 that may be the partiality of a wife — " 
 
 Traddles and I both murmured " No." 
 
 " And here is Mr. Micawber without any suit- 
 able position or employment. Where does that 
 responsibility rest ? Clearly on society. Then I 
 would make a fact so disgraceful known, and 
 boldly challenge society to set it right. It ap- 
 pears to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that what 
 Mr. Micawber has to do is to throw down the 
 guantlet to society, and say, in efiect, ' Show me 
 who will take that up. Let the party imme- 
 diately step forward.' " 
 
 I ventured to ask Mrs. Micawber how this was 
 to be done. 
 
A READING. 37 
 
 " By advertising in all the papers. It appears 
 to me, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, in 
 justice to himself, in justice to his family, and 
 I will even go so far as to say in justice to 
 Society, by which he has been hitherto over- 
 looked, is to advertise in all the papers ; to 
 describe himself plainly as so and so, with such 
 and such qualifications, aiid to put it thus : ' Now 
 employ me, on remunerative terms, and address, 
 post paid, to W. M., Post Office, Camden Town.' " 
 
 " This idea of Mrs. Micawber "s, my dear Cop- 
 perfield," said Mr. Micawber, making his shirt- 
 collar meet in front of his chin, and glancing at 
 me sideways, " is, in fact, the Leap to which I 
 Alluded when I last had the pleasure of Seeing 
 you." 
 
 '' Advertising is rathet expensive," I remarked, 
 dubiously. 
 
 "• Exactly so ! " said Mrs. Micawber,' preserving 
 the same logical air. , " Quite true, my dear - Mr. 
 ,Copperfis(ld!, I have made the identical observa- 
 tion to Mr. Micawber! It is for that reason es- 
 
38 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 pecially, that I think Mr. Micawber ought (as I 
 have already said, in justice to himself, in justice 
 to his family, and in justice to society) to raise a 
 certain sum of money — on a bill." 
 
 Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair, trifled 
 with his eye-glass, and cast his eye up at the ceil- 
 ing ; but I thought him observant of Traddles, 
 too, who was looking at the fire. 
 
 " If no member of my family," said Mrs. Micaw- 
 ber, " is possessed of sufficient natural feeling to 
 negotiate that bill — I believe there is a better 
 business-term to express what I mean — " 
 
 Mr. Micawber, with his eyes still cast up at 
 the ceiling, suggested " Discount." 
 
 " To discount that bill, then, my opinion is, 
 that Mr. Micawber should go into the City, should 
 take that bill into the Money Market, and should 
 dispose of it for what he can get. If the indivi- 
 duals in the Money Market oblige Mr. Micawber 
 to sustain a great sacrifice, that is between them- 
 selves and their consciences. I view it, steadily, 
 as an investment. I recommend Mr. Micawber 
 
A READING. 39 
 
 my dear Mr. Copperfield, to do the same ; to 
 regard it as an investment which is sure of re- 
 turn, and to make up his mind to any sacrifice." 
 
 I felt, but I am sure I don't know why, that 
 this was highly self-denying and devoted in Mrs. 
 Micawber, and I uttered a murmur to that effect. 
 Traddles, who took his tone from me, did like- 
 wise, and really I felt that she was a noble 
 woman — the sort of woman who might have been 
 a Koman matron, and done all manner of trouble- 
 some heroic public actions. 
 
 In the fervour of this impression, I congratu- 
 lated Mr. Micawber on the treasure he possessed. 
 So did Traddles. Mr. Micawber extended his. 
 hand to each of us in succession, and then covered 
 his face with his pocket-handkerchief, which I 
 think had more snuff upon it than he was aware 
 of. He then returned to the punch, in the 
 highest state of exhilaration. 
 
 H e was fuU of eloquence. He gave us to under- 
 stand that in our children we lived again, and 
 that, under the pressure of pecuniary difficulties. 
 
40 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 any accession to their number was doubly wel- 
 come. He said that Mrs. Micawber had latterly 
 had her doubts on this point, but that he had dis- 
 pelled them, and reassured her. As to her family, 
 they were totally unworthy of her, and their 
 sentiments were utterly indifierent to him, and 
 they might — I quote his own expression — go to 
 the Devil. 
 
 Mr. Micawber then delivered a warm eulogy 
 on Traddles. He said Traddles's was a character, 
 to the steady virtues of which he (Mr. Micawber) 
 could lay no claim, but which, he thanked 
 Heaven, he could admire. He feelingly alluded 
 to the young lady, unknown, whom Traddles had 
 honoured with his aflection, and who had recipro- 
 cated that aflfection by honouring and blessing 
 Traddles with her affection. Mr. Micawber 
 pledged her. So did I. Traddles thanked us 
 both, by saying, with a simplicity and honesty 
 I had sense enough to be quite charmed with, 
 ■"I am very much obliged to you indeed. And I 
 do assure you, she's the dearest girl !^" 
 
A HEADING. 41 
 
 Mr. Micawber took an early opportunity, after 
 that, of hinting, with the utmost delicacy and 
 ceremony, at the state of my affections. Nothing, 
 but the serious assurance of his friend Copperfield 
 "to the contrary, he observed, could deprive him of 
 the impression that his friend Copperfield loved 
 and was beloved. After feeling very hot and 
 uncomfortable for some time, and after a good 
 deal of blushing, stammering, and denying, I said, 
 having my glass in my hand, " Well ! I would 
 ^ve them D. ! " which so excited Mr. Micawber, 
 that he ran with a glass of punch into my bed- 
 room, in order that Mrs. Micawber might drink D., 
 who drank it with enthusiasm, crying from with- 
 in, in a shrill voice, " Hear, Hear ! My dear Mr. 
 Copperfield, I am delighted. Hear ! " and tapping 
 at the wall, by way of applause. 
 
 Mrs. Micawber made tea for us in a most agree- 
 able manner ; and, whenever I went near her, in 
 handing about the teacups and bread-and-butter, 
 asked me, in a whisper, whether D. was fair, or 
 •dark, or whether she was short, or tall ; or some- 
 
42 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 thing of that kind ; which I think I liked. After 
 tea, we discussed a variety of topics before the- 
 fire ; and Mrs. Micawber was good enough to sing 
 us (in a small, thin, flat voice, which I remem- 
 bered to have considered, when I first knew her,, 
 the very table-beer of acoustics) the favourite- 
 ballads of "The Dashing White Sergeant," and 
 "Little Tafflin." For both of these songs Mrs.. 
 Micawber had been famous when she lived at 
 home with her papa and mamma. Mr. Micawber 
 told us, that when he heard her sing the first one, 
 on the first occasion of his seeing her beneath the 
 parental roof, she had attracted his attention in an- 
 extraordinary degree ; but that when it came to- 
 Little Tafflin, he had resolved to win that woman 
 or perish in the attempt. 
 
 It was between ten and eleven o'clock when 
 Mrs. Micawber rose to replace her cap in the 
 parcel, and to put on her bonnet. Mr. Micaw- 
 ber took the opportunity of Traddles putting oni 
 his greatcoat, to slip a letter into my hand, with 
 a whispered request that I would read it at my 
 
A READING. 43 
 
 leisure. I also took the opportunity of my hold- 
 ing a candle over the bannisters to light them 
 down, when Mr. Micawber was going first, lead- 
 ing Mrs. Micawber, to detain Traddles for a 
 moment on the top of the stairs. 
 
 " Traddles, Mr. Micawber don't mean any harm, 
 poor fellow ; but, if I were you, I wouldn't lend 
 him anything." 
 
 " My dear Copperfield, I haven't got anything 
 to lend." 
 
 " You have got a name, you know." 
 
 " Oh ! You call that something to lend ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Oh ! Yes, to be sure ! I am very much obliged 
 to you, Copperfield, but — I am afraid I have lent 
 him that already." 
 
 "For the bill that is to be a certain investment? " 
 
 "No. Not for that one. This is the first I 
 have heard of that one. I have been thinking that 
 he will most likely propose that one, on the way 
 home. Mine's another." 
 
 " I hope there will be nothing wrong about it." 
 
44 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 " I hope not," said Traddles. " I should think 
 not, though, bfecause he told mc, only the other 
 day, that it was provided for. That was Mr. 
 Micawber's expression, ' Provided for.' '' 
 
 Mr. Micawber looking up at this juncture to 
 where we were standing, I had only time to re- 
 peat my caution. Traddles thanked me, and 
 descended. But I was much afraid, when I ob- 
 served the good-natured manner in which he went 
 down with Mrs. Micawber's cap in his hand, that 
 he would be carried into the Money Market, neck 
 and heels. 
 
 I returned to my fireside, and read Mr. Micaw- 
 ber's letter. It was dated an hour and a half 
 before dinner. I am not sure whether I have 
 mentioned that, when Mr. Micawber was at any 
 particularly desperate crisis, he used a sort of 
 legal phraseology : which he seemed to think 
 «C[uivalent to winding up his affairs. 
 
 " Sir — for I dare iiot say my dear Copperfield, 
 
 " It is expedient that I should inform you that 
 the undersigned is Crushed. Some flickering 
 
A BEADING. 45 
 
 eflforts to spare you the premature knowledge of 
 his calamitous position, you may observe in him 
 this day ; but hope has sunk beneath the horizon, 
 and the undersigned is Crushed. 
 
 " The present communication is penned within 
 the personal range (I cannot call it the society) 
 of an individual, in a state closely bordering on 
 intoxication, employed by a broker. That indi- 
 vidual is in legal possession of the premises, under 
 a distress for rent. His inventory includes, not 
 only the chattels and effects of every description 
 belonging to the undersigned, as yearly tenant 
 of this habitation, but also those appertaining to 
 to Mr. Thomas Traddles, lodger, a member of the 
 Honourable Society of the Inner Temple. 
 
 " If any drop of gloom were wanting in the 
 overflowing cup, which is now 'commended' (in 
 the language of an immortal Writer) to the . lips 
 of the undersigned, it would be found in the fact, 
 that a friendly acceptance granted to the under- 
 signed, by the before-mentioned Mr. Thomas 
 Traddles, for the sum of X23 4s. 9^d. is over due, 
 
46 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 and is not provided for. Also, in the fact, that 
 the living responsibilities clinging to the under- 
 signed, will, in the course of nature be increased 
 by the sum of one more helpless victim ; whose 
 miserable appearance may be looked for — in round 
 numbers — at the expiration of a period not ex- 
 ceeding six lunar months from the present date. 
 
 " After premising thus much, it would be a 
 work of supererogation to add, that dust and ashes 
 are for ever scattered 
 "On 
 "The 
 " Head 
 "Of 
 
 "WlLKINS MiCAWBER." 
 
A RKADING. 47 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Barely did I wake at night, rarely did I look up 
 ^t the moon or stars or watch the falling rain, or 
 hear the wind, but I thought of the solitaiy figure 
 of the good fisherman toiling on — poor Pilgrim ! — 
 and recalled his words, " I'm a going to seek my 
 niece. I'm a going to seek her fur and wide." 
 
 Months passed, and he had been absent — no 
 one knew where — the whole time. It had been 
 u bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind had 
 blown. The wind had gone down with the light, 
 and snow had come on — a heavy, settled fall in 
 great flakes; and it lay thick. The noise of 
 wheels and tread of people were as hushed, as 
 if the streets had been strewn that depth with 
 feathers. 
 
 My shortest way home, —and I naturally took 
 
48 DAVID OOPPEKFIELD. 
 
 the shortest way on such a night — was through 
 ^nt Martin's Lane. On the steps of the church, 
 there was the stooping figure of a man, who had 
 put down some burden on the smooth snow, to 
 adjust it. I stood face to face with Mr. Peg- 
 gotty ! We shook hands. At first neither of us 
 could speak a word. 
 
 " Mas'r Davy ! It do my art good to see you, 
 sir. Well met, well met ! " 
 
 "Well met, my dear old friend ! " 
 
 " I had thowts o' coming to make inquiration 
 for you, sir, to-night, but it was too late. I 
 should have come early in the morning, sir, afore 
 going away agen." 
 
 " Again ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," he replied, patiently shaking his 
 head, " I'm away to-morrow." 
 
 In those days there was a side entrance to 
 the stable-yard of the Golden Cross. I pointed 
 out the gateway, put my arm through his, and 
 we went in. Two or three public-rooms opened 
 out of the stable-yard ; and looking into one of 
 
A READING. 49 
 
 them, and finding it empty, and a good fire 
 burning, I took him in there. 
 
 When I saw him in the light, I observed, not 
 only that his hair was long and ragged, but that 
 his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was 
 grayer, the lines in his face and forehead were 
 deeper, and he had every appearance of having 
 toiled and wandered through all varieties of 
 weather ; but he looked very strong, and like a 
 man upheld by stedfastness of purpose, whom 
 nothing could tire out. He shook the snow from 
 his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from 
 his face. As he sate down opposite to me at a 
 table, with his back to the door by which we had 
 entered, he put out his rough hand again, and 
 grasped mine warmly. 
 
 " I'll tell you, Mas'r Davy, wheer-all I've been, 
 and what-all we've heerd. I've been fur, and 
 we've heerd little ; but I'll tell you ! " 
 
 I rang the bell for something hot to drink. 
 He would have nothing stronger than ale ; and 
 while it was being brought, and being warmed 
 
-60 DAVID COPFERFIELD. 
 
 at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine 
 massive gravity in his face, which I did not 
 venture to disturb. 
 
 "When she was a child, she used to talk to 
 me a deal about the sea, and about them coasts 
 where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay a 
 shining and a shining in the sun. I thowt, odd 
 times, as her father being drownded, made her 
 think on it so much. 1 doen"t know, you see, 
 but maybe she believed — or hoped — he had drifted 
 out to them parts, where the flowers is always a 
 blowing, and the country bright.'' 
 
 " It is likely to have been a childish fancy." 
 "When she was — lost, I know'd in my mind, 
 as he would take her to them countries. I 
 know'd in my mind, as he'd have told her 
 wonders of 'em, and how she was to be a lady 
 theer, and how he first got her to listen to him 
 along o' sech like. I went acrbss-channel to 
 Prance, and landed theer, as if I'd fell down 
 from the skies. I found out a English gentleman, 
 -as was in authority, and told him I was going to 
 
A READING. 51 
 
 seek my niece. He got me them papers as I 
 wanted fur to carry me through — I doen't rightly 
 know how they're called — and he would have 
 give me money, but that I was thankful to have 
 no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, 
 I'm sure ! I told him, best as I was able, what 
 my gratitoode was, and went away through France, 
 fur to seek my niece." 
 
 " Alone, and on foot ? " 
 
 " Mostly a-foot ; sometimes in carts along with 
 people going to market ; sometimes in empty 
 coaches. Many mile a day a-foot, and often 
 with some poor soldier or another, travelling fur 
 to see his friends. I couldn't talk to him, nor 
 he to me ; but we was company for one another, 
 too, along the dusty roads. When I come to any 
 town, I found the inn, and waited about the yard 
 till some one came by (some one mostly did) as 
 know'd English. Then I told how that I was on 
 my way to seek my niece, and they told me what 
 manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I 
 waited to see any as seemed like her, going in or 
 
 E 2 
 
52 DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 
 
 out. When it warn't Em'ly, I went on agen. 
 By little and little, when I come to a new village 
 or that, among the poor people, I found they 
 know'd about me. They would set me down at 
 their cottage doors, and give me what-not fur to 
 eat and drink, and show me where to sleep. And 
 many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has had a daughter 
 of about Em'ly's age, I've found a-waiting for 
 me, at Our Saviour's Cross outside the village, 
 fur to do me sim'Iar kindnesses. Some has had 
 daughters as was dead. And God only knows 
 how good them mothers was to me ! They would 
 often put their children — partic'lar their little 
 girls — upon my knee ; and many a time you 
 might have seen me sitting at their doors, when 
 night was coming on, a'most as if they'd been 
 my Darling's children. Oh, my Darling ! " 
 
 I laid my trembling hand upon the hand he 
 put before his face. "Thankee, sir, doen't take 
 no notice." 
 
 " At last I come to the sea. It warn't hard, 
 you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me 
 
A READING. 53 
 
 to work his way over to Italy. When I got 
 theer, I wandered on as I had done afore. I got 
 news of her being seen among them Swiss moun- 
 tains yonder. One as know'd his servant see 'em 
 theer, all three, and told me how they travelled, 
 and wheer they was. I made for them mountains, 
 Mas'r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I 
 went, ever so fur them, mountains seemed to shift 
 away from me. But I come up with 'em, and 
 I crossed 'em. When I got nigh the place as 
 I had been told of, I began to think within my 
 own self, ' What shall I do when I see her ? ' I 
 never doubted her. No ! Not a bit ! On'y let 
 her see my face — on'y let her heer my voice — 
 on'y let/ my stanning still afore her bring to her 
 thoughts the home she had fled away from, arid 
 the child she had been — and if she had growed 
 to be a royal lady, she'd have fell down at my 
 feet ! I know'd it well ! Many a time in my 
 sleep had I heerd her cry out, ' Uncle ! ' and seen 
 her fall like death afore me. Many a time in 
 my sleep had I raised her up, and whispered to 
 
54 UAVID COPPERFIELI). 
 
 her, 'Em'ly, my dear, I am come fur to bring 
 forgiveness, and to take you home ! ' Well ! He 
 was nowt to me now. Em'ly was all. I bought 
 a country dress to put upon her To put that 
 dress upon her, and to cast oflf what she wore — to 
 take her on my arm again, and wander towards 
 home — to stop sometimes upon the road, and heal 
 her bruised feet and her worse-bruised heart- 
 was all I thowt of now. But, Mas'r Davy, it 
 warn't to be — not yet ! I was too late, and they 
 was gone. Wheer, I couldn't learn. Some said 
 heer, some said theer. I travelled heer, and I 
 travelled theer, but I found no Em'ly, and I 
 travelled home." 
 " How long ago ? " 
 
 "A matter o' fower days. I sighted the old 
 boat arter dark, and the light a shining in the 
 winder. When I come nigh and looked in through 
 the glass, I see the faithful creetur Missis 
 Gummidge a sittin' by the fire, as she and me had 
 fixed upon, alone. I called out, ' Doen't be 
 afeerd ! It's Dan'l ! ' and I went in. I never 
 
A READING. S5 
 
 could have thowt the old boat would have been 
 so strange ! " 
 
 From some pocket in his breast, he took out 
 with a very careful hand, a small paper bundle 
 containing two or three letters or little packets, 
 which he laid upon the table. 
 
 " This first one come afore I had been gone 
 a week, A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of 
 paper, directed to me, and put underneath the 
 door in the night. She tried to hide her writing, 
 but she couldn't hide it from Me ! This one 
 come to Missis Gummidge, two or three month* 
 ago. Five pounds." 
 
 It was untouched like the previous sum, and he 
 refolded both. 
 
 " Is that another letter in your hand ? " 
 
 " It's money, too, sir. Ten pound, you see. And 
 wrote inside, ' From a true friend.' But the two 
 first was put underneath the door, and this come 
 by the post, day afore yesterday. I'm going t* 
 seek her at the post-mark." 
 
 He showed it to me. It was a town on tha 
 
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 TJpper Rhine^ He had found out, at Yarmouth, 
 somB~for6ign dealers who knew that country, and 
 they had drawn him a rude map on paper, which 
 he could very well understand. 
 
 I asked him how Ham was ? He shook his head. 
 
 " He works as bold as a man can. His name's 
 as good, in all that part, as any man's is, anywheres 
 in the wureld. Anyone's hand is ready to help 
 him, you understand, and he is ready to help them. 
 He's never been heerd fur to complain. But my 
 sister's belief is ('twixt ourselves) as it has cut 
 him deep. Well ! Haying seen you to-night, 
 Mas'r Davy (and that doos me good !), I shall away 
 betimes to-morrow morning. You have seen what 
 I've got heer ; " putting his hand on where the 
 little packet lay ; " all that troubles me is, to 
 think that any harm might come to me, afore this 
 money was give back. If I was to die, and it 
 was lost, or stole, or elseways made away with, 
 and it was never know'd by him but what I'd 
 took it, I believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold 
 me ! I believe I must come back ! " 
 
A READING. 57 
 
 He rose, and I rose too. "We grasped each other 
 by the hand again, and as we went out into the 
 rigorous night, everything seemed to be hushed in 
 reverence for him, when he resumed his solitary 
 journey through the snow. 
 
58 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 All this time I had gone on loving Dora harder 
 than ever. If I may so express it, I was steeped 
 in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears in 
 love with her ; I was saturated through and 
 through. I took night walks to Norwood where 
 she lived, and perambulated round and round the 
 house and garden for hours together ; looking 
 through crevices in the palings, using violent 
 exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on 
 the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the 
 windows, and romantically calling on the night to 
 shield my Dora. I don't exactly know from what 
 — I suppose from fire — perhaps from mice, to 
 which she had a great objection. 
 
 Dora had a friend, comparatively stricken in 
 years ; almost of the ripe age of twenty, I should 
 
A READING. 59 
 
 say. Her name was Miss Mills, and Dora called 
 her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. 
 Happy Miss Mills ! 
 
 One day Miss Mills said, " Dora is coming to 
 stay with me. She is coming the day after to- 
 morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure 
 papa would be happy to see you." What could 
 I do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss Mills's 
 head, and store Miss Mills's address in the securest 
 corner of my memory ? 
 
 I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness, 
 torturing myself by putting every conceivable 
 vai'iety of discouraging construction on all that 
 had ever taken place between Dora and me. At 
 last, arrayed for the purpose at a vast expense, I 
 went to Miss Mills's fraught with a declaration. 
 
 Mr. MiUs was not at home. I didn't expect he 
 would be. Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was 
 at home. Miss Mills would do. 
 
 I was shown into a room up-stairs, where Miss 
 Mills and Dora were. Dora's little dog Jip was 
 there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora 
 
60 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 was painting flowers. What were my feelings 
 when I recognized flowers I had given her! I 
 cannot say that they were very like, or that they 
 particularly resembled any flowers that have ever 
 come under my observation. 
 ^. Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very 
 sorry her papa was not at home : though I thought 
 we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was 
 conversational for a few minutes, and then, laying 
 down her pen, got up and left the room. 
 
 1 began to think I would put it ofl" till to- 
 morrow. 
 
 " I hope your poor horse was not tired, when 
 he got home at night from that pic-nic," said 
 Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. " It was a 
 long way for him." 
 
 I began to think I would do it to-day, 
 
 " It was a long way for him, for he had nothing 
 to uphold him on the journey.'' 
 
 " Wasn't he fed, poor thing ? " asked Dora. 
 
 I began to think I would put it ofl" till to- 
 morrow. 
 
A READING. 61 
 
 " Ye — yes, he was well taken care of. I mean 
 he had not th^unutterable happiness that I had in 
 being so near you." 
 
 Dora bent her head over her drawing, and said, 
 after a little while — I had sat, in the interval, in 
 a burning fever, and with my legs in a very rigid 
 state — 
 
 " You didn't seem to ben^sible of that happi- 
 ness yourself, at one time of the day." 
 
 I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be 
 done on the spot. 
 
 "You didn't care for that happiness in the 
 least,'' said Dora, slightly raising her eyebrows, 
 and shaking her head, "when you were sitting 
 by Miss Kitt." 
 
 Kitt I should observe, was the name of a femi- 
 nine creature in pink, with little eyes, with whom 
 I had flirted at the pic-nic in madness and de- 
 spair. 
 
 "Though certainly I don't know why you 
 should care for being near me," said Dora, " or 
 why you should call it a happiness at all. But of 
 
62 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 course you don't mean what you say. And I am 
 sure no one doubts your being at liberty to do 
 whatever you like. Jip, you naughty boy, come 
 here ! " 
 
 I don't know how I did it. I did it in a 
 moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my 
 arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped 
 for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told 
 her I should die without her. I told her that I 
 idolized and worshipped her. Jip barked madly 
 all the time. 
 
 When Dora hung her head and cried and trem- 
 bled, my eloquence increased so much the more. 
 I said, if she would like me to die for her, she had 
 but to say the word, and I was ready. Life with- 
 out Dora's love was not a thing to have on any 
 terms. I couldn't bear it, and I wouldn't. I had 
 loved her every minute, day and night, since I 
 first saw her. I loved her at that minute to dis- 
 traction. I should always love her, every mi- 
 nute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, 
 and lovers would love again ; but no lover had 
 
A READING. 63 
 
 ever loved, might, could, would, or should, ever 
 love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the 
 more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way, 
 got more mad every moment. 
 
 Well, well ! Dora and I were sitting on the 
 sofa by-and-by, quiet enough, and Jip was lying 
 in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off 
 my miiid. I was in a state of perfect rapture. 
 Dora and I were engaged. 
 
 Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I 
 went to my darling, to expatiate on that unfor- 
 tunate drawback. I soon carried desolation into 
 the bosom of our joys — not that I meant to do it, 
 but that I was so full of the subject — by asking 
 Dora, without the smallest preparation, if she 
 could love a beggar ? 
 
 My pretty, little, startled Dora ! Her only 
 association with the word was a yellow face and a 
 nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a wooden leg, 
 or a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or 
 something of that kind ; and she stared at me 
 with the most delightful wonder. 
 
64 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 "How can you ask me anything so foolish? 
 Love a beggar ! " 
 
 " Dora, my own dearest ! I am a beggar ! " 
 
 " How can you be such a silly thing," replied 
 Dora, slapping my hand, " as to sit there, telling 
 such stories ? I'll make Jip bite you ! " 
 
 " Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David ! " 
 
 "I declare I'll make Jip bite you ! " said Dora, 
 shaking her curls, "if you are so ridiculous." 
 
 But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shak- 
 ing her curls, and laid her trembling little hand 
 upon my shoulder, and first looked scared and 
 anxious, then began to cry. That was dreadful. 
 For some time, poor little Dora did nothing but 
 exclaim Oh dear ! Oh dear ! And oh, she was 
 so frightened ! And where was Julia Mills ! 
 And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, 
 please ! until I was almost beside myself. 
 
 I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water 
 on her face. I went down on my knees. I 
 plucked at my hair. I denounced myself as a re- 
 morseless brute, and beast. I implored her for- 
 
A KEAUING. 65 
 
 giveness. I besought her to look up. I ravaged 
 Miss Mills's work-box for a smelling-bottle, and 
 in my agony of mind applied an ivory needle- 
 case instead, and dropped all the needles over 
 Dora. I shook my fists at Jip, who was as frantic 
 as myself. I did every wild extravagance that 
 could be done. 
 
 At last, after an agony of supplication, I got 
 Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression 
 of face, which I gradually soothed until it was 
 only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lying 
 against mine. 
 
 "Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?" said I, 
 rapturously, for I knew by her clinging to me 
 that it was. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " cried Dora. " Oh, yes, it's all 
 yours. Oh, don't be dreadful ! " 
 
 / dreadful. To Dora ! 
 
 " Don't talk about being poor, and working 
 hard ! Oh, don't, don't ! " 
 
 " My dearest love, the crust well-earned — " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but I don't want to hear any more 
 
 p 
 
66 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 about crusts ! And Jip must have a mutton-chop 
 every day at twelve, or he'll die ! " 
 
 I was charmed with her childish, winning way 
 and I fondly explained to her that Jip should 
 have his mutton-chop with his accustomed regu- 
 larity. 
 
 One thing troubled me, though, after we had 
 fallen into a quiet train and were in a fair way 
 to be married. It was, that Dora seemed by one 
 consent to be regarded like a pretty toy or pla}'- 
 thing. It was very odd to me ; but they all 
 seemed to treat Dora, in her degree, much as Dora 
 treated Jip in his. 
 
 I made up my mind to speak to Dora about 
 this ; and one day, I said to her that I wished she 
 could get them to behave towards her differently. 
 
 " Because you know, my darling, you are not 
 a child." 
 
 " There ! Now you're going to be cross ! " 
 " Cross, my love ? " 
 
 " I am sure they're very kind to me, and I 
 am very happy." 
 
A READING. 67 
 
 " Well ! But my dearest life, you might be 
 very happy, and yet be treated rationally." 
 
 Dora gave me a reproachful look — the prettiest 
 look ! — and then began to sob, saying if I didn't 
 like her, why had I ever wanted so much to be 
 engaged to her ? And why didn't I go away now, 
 if I couldn't bear her ? 
 
 What could I do but kiss away her tears, and 
 teU her how I doted on her, after that ! 
 
 I was charmed by her presently asking me, of 
 her own accord, to give her that cookery-book I 
 had once spoken of, and to show her how to keep 
 accounts, as I had once promised I would. I 
 brought the volume with me on my next visit (I 
 got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less 
 dry and more inviting) ; and showed her an old 
 house-keeping-book of my aunt's, and gave her 
 a set of tablets, and a pretty little pencil-case, 
 and a box of leads, to practise house-keeping with. 
 
 But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, 
 and the figures made her cry. They wouldn't add 
 up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew 
 
 p2 
 
68 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all 
 over the tablets. 
 
 Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in 
 domestic matters. Sometimes, for example, when 
 we passed a butcher's shop, I would say : 
 
 " Now suppose, my pet, that we were married, 
 and you were going to buy a shoulder of mutton 
 for dinner, would you know how to buy it ? " 
 
 My pretty little Dora's face would fall, and 
 she would make her mouth into a rosebud, as if 
 she would very much prefer to shut mine with a 
 kiss. 
 
 " Would you know how to buy it, my darling ? " 
 I would repeat, if I were very inflexible. 
 
 Dora would think a little, and would then reply 
 with great triumph : 
 
 " Why, the butcher would know how to sell it, 
 and what need / know ? Oh, you silly boy ! " 
 
 So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to 
 the cookery-book, what she would do, if we were 
 married, and I were to say I should like a nice 
 Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the 
 
A READING. 69 
 
 servaot to make it ; and then clapped her little 
 hands together across my arm, and laughed in 
 such a charming manner that she was more de- 
 lightful than ever. 
 
 Time went on, and at last, here in this hand 
 of mine I held the wedding licence. There were 
 the two names in the sweet old visionary con- 
 nexion, David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow ; 
 and there in the corner was that parental Insti- 
 tution the Stamp-office, looking down upon our 
 union ; and there, in the printed form of words, 
 was the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a 
 blessing on us, and doing it as cheap as could pos- 
 sibly be expected I 
 
 I doubt whether two young birds could have 
 known less about keeping house, than I and my 
 pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. 
 She kept house for us. We had an awful time 
 of it with Mary Anne. 
 
 Her name was Paragon. Her nature was re- 
 presented to us, when we engaged her, as being 
 feebly expressed in her name. She had a written 
 
70 DA\ID COPPERFJELD. 
 
 character, as large as a Proclamation ; and, ac- 
 cording to this document, could do everything of 
 a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a 
 great many things that I never did hear of. She 
 was a woman in the prime of life ; of a severe 
 countenance; and subject (particularly in the 
 arms) to a sort of perpetual measles. She 
 had a cousin in the Life Guards, with such 
 long legs that he looked like the afternoon 
 shadow of somebody else. She was warranted 
 sober and honest. I am therefore willing to 
 believe that she was in a fit when we found her 
 under the boiler ; and that the deficient teaspoons 
 were attributable to the dustman. She was the 
 cause of our first little quarrel. 
 
 " My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, 
 " do you think Mary Anne has any idea of 
 time?" 
 
 " Why, Doady ? " inquired Dora, looking up 
 from her drawing. 
 
 " My love, because it's five, and we were to 
 have dined at four." 
 
A READING. 71 
 
 Dora glanced at the clock, and hinted that 
 she thought it was too fast. 
 
 " On the contrary, my love, it's a few minutes 
 too slow." 
 
 My little wife came and sat upon my knee, 
 to coax me to be quiet, and drew a line with 
 her pencil down the middle of my nose ; but 
 I couldn't dine off that, though it was very 
 agreeable. 
 
 " Don't you think, my dear, it would be better 
 for you to remonstrate with Mary Anne ? " 
 
 " Oh no, please ! I couldn't, Doady ! ' 
 
 " Why not, my love ? " 
 
 " Oh, because I am such a little goose, and she 
 knows I am ! " 
 
 I thought this sentiment so incompatible with 
 the establishment of any system of check on Mary 
 Anne, that I frowned a little. 
 
 "Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy's fore- 
 head ! " said Dora, and still being on my knee, 
 she traced them with her pencil ; putting it to 
 her rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working 
 
72 DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 
 
 at my forehead with a quaint little mockery of 
 being industrious, that quite delighted me in 
 spite of myself. 
 
 " There's a good child," said Dora, " it makes 
 its face so much prettier to laugh." 
 
 " But my love," said I. 
 
 " No, no ! please ! " cried Dora, with a kiss, 
 " don't be a naughty Blue Beard ! Don't be 
 serious ! '' 
 
 I " My precious wife," said I, "we must be serious 
 sometimes. Come ! Sit down on this chair, close 
 beside me ! Give me the pencil ! There ! Now 
 let us talk sensibly. You know, dear ;" what a 
 little hand it was to hold, and what a tiny wedding- 
 ring it was to see ! " You know, my love, it is 
 not exactly comfortable to have to go out without 
 one's dinner. Now, is it ? " 
 
 " N — n — no ! " replied Dora, faintly. 
 
 " My love, how you tremble ! " 
 
 " Because I know you're going to scold me," 
 exclaimed Dora, in a piteous voice. 
 
 " My sweet, I am only going to reason." 
 
A KEADING. 73 
 
 " Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding ! 
 I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you 
 meant to reason with such a poor little thing as 
 I am, you ought to have told me so, you cruel 
 boy!" 
 
 I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away 
 her face, and shook her curls from side to side, and 
 said, " You cruel, cruel boy ! " so many times, that I 
 really did not exactly know what to do. So I took 
 a few turns up and down the room in my uncer- 
 tainty, and came back again. 
 
 " Dora, my darling ! " 
 
 " No, I am not your darling. Because you must 
 be sorry that you married me, or else you wouldn't 
 reason with me ! " returned Dora. 
 
 I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature 
 of this charge, that it gave me courage to be grave. 
 
 " Now, my own Dora, you are very childish, 
 and are talking nonsense. You must remember, 
 I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday 
 when dinner was half over ; and that, the day 
 before, I was made quite unwell by being obliged 
 
'* DAVID COrPERFIELD. 
 
 to eat underdone veal in a hurry ; to-day, I don't 
 dine at all — and I am afraid to say how long we 
 waited for breakfast— and then the water didn't 
 boil, I don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but 
 this is not comfortable." 
 
 " Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a dis- 
 agreeable wife ! " 
 
 "Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I 
 never said that ! " 
 
 " You said I wasn't comfortable ! " 
 
 " I said the house-keeping was not comfortable." 
 
 " It's exactly the same thing ! and I wonder, I 
 do, at your making such ungrateful speeches. 
 When you know that the other day, when you 
 said you would like a little bit of fish, I went 
 out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it, to sur- 
 prise you." 
 
 " And it was very kind of you, my own darling ; 
 and I felt it so much that I wouldn't on any ac- 
 count have mentioned that you bought a salmon — 
 which was too much for two. Or that it cost one 
 pound six — which was more than we can afford." 
 
A READING. 75 
 
 "You enjoyed it very much," sobbed Dora. 
 " And you said I was a mouse." 
 
 "And I'll say so again, my love, a thousand 
 times ! " 
 
 I said it a thousand times, and more, and went 
 on saying it until Mary Anne's cousin deserted 
 into our coal-hole, and was brought out, to our 
 great amazement, by a piquet of his companions 
 in arms, who took him away handcuffed, in a 
 procession that covered our front-garden with dis- 
 grace. This nerved me to get rid of Mary Anne ; 
 and after an interval of Mrs. Kidgerbury — the 
 oldest inhabitant of Kentish Town, who went out 
 charing, but was too feeble to execute her concep- 
 tions of that art — we found another treasure, who 
 was one of the most amiable of women but who 
 generally made a point of falling either up or 
 down the kitchen stairs with the tray. The 
 ravages committed by this unfortunate, rendering 
 her dismissal necessary, she was succeeded (with 
 intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line of 
 Incapables ; terminating in a young person of 
 
76 DAVID COPPERl'lELD. 
 
 genteel appearance, who went to Greenwich Fair 
 in Dora's bonnet. 
 
 Everybody we had anything to do with, seemed 
 to cheat us. Our appearance in a shop was a 
 signal for the damaged goods to be brought out 
 immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was full 
 of water. All our meat turned out tough, and 
 there was hardly any crust to our loaves. In 
 search of the principle on which joints ought to 
 be roasted, to be roasted enough and not too 
 much, I myself referred to the Cookery-Book, and 
 found it there established as the allowance of a 
 quarter of an hour to every pound, and say a 
 quarter over. But the principle always failed us. 
 
 As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, 
 and coming in a state of penitent intoxication to 
 apologize, I suppose that might have happened 
 several times to anybody. Also the chimney on 
 tire, the parish engine, and perjury on the part of 
 the Beadle. But I apprehend we were per- 
 sonally vmfortunate in engaging a servant with a 
 taste for cordials, who swelled our running account 
 
A READING. 77 
 
 for porter at the public-house by such inexplicable 
 items as " quartern rum shrub (Mrs. C.) " " Half 
 quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.) " " Glass rum 
 and peppermint (Mrs. C.) " — the parenthesis 
 always referring to Dora, who was supposed, it 
 appeared on explanation, to have imbibed the 
 whole of these refreshments. 
 
 Then, we kept a page. The principal function 
 of this retainer was to quarrel with the cook ; in 
 which respect he was a perfect Whittington, with- 
 out his cat, or the remotest chance of being made 
 Lord Mayor. He lived in a hail of saucepan-lids. 
 He would shriek for help on the most improper 
 occasions^as when we had a little dinner or a 
 few friends in the evening — and would come 
 tumbling out of the kitchen, with iron missiles 
 flying after him. We wanted to get rid of him, 
 but he was very much attached to us, a!nd 
 wouldn't go, until one day he stole Dora's watch, 
 and spent the produce (he was always a weak- 
 minded boy) in incessantly riding up and down 
 between London and XJxbridge outside the coach. 
 
78 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 He was taken to Bow Street, as well as I remem- 
 ber, on the completion of his fifteenth journey ; 
 when four-and-sixpence, and a second-hand fife 
 which he couldn't play, were found upon his 
 person. 
 
 He was tried and ordered to be transported. 
 Even then he couldn't be quiet, but was always 
 writing us letters ; and he wanted so much to see 
 Dora before he went away, that Dora went to 
 visit him, and fainted when she found herself 
 inside the iron bars. I had no peace of my life 
 until he was expatriated, and made (as I after- 
 wards heard) a shepherd of, " up the country " 
 somewhere ; I have no geographical idea where, 
 
 " I am very sorry for all this, Doady," said 
 Dora, " Will you call me a name I want you to 
 call me?" 
 
 "What is it, my dear?" 
 
 "It's a stupid name — Child-wife, When you 
 are going to be angry with me, say to yourself 
 ' it's only my Child-wife.' When I am very dis- 
 appointing, say, 'I knew, a long time ago, that 
 
A READING. 79 
 
 she would make but a Child-wife.' "When you 
 miss what you would like me to be, and what I 
 should like to be, and what I think I never can 
 be, say, ' Still my foolish Child-wife loves me.' 
 For indeed I do." 
 
 Her hands were clasped upon my shoulder, and 
 her chin rested on them, and her eyes looked 
 quietly into mine. I invoke the innocent figure 
 that I dearly loved, to come out of the mists and 
 shadows of the Past, and to turn its gentle head 
 towards me once again, and to bear witness that 
 it was made happy by what I answered. 
 
80 UAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I HEARD a footstep on the stairs one day. I knew 
 it to be Mr. Peggotty's. It came nearer, nearer 
 rushed into the room. 
 
 " Mas'r Davy, I've found her ! I lay my dear 
 child last night in my lodging here in Lunnon. 
 I thank my Heavenly Father for having guided 
 of me in His own ways to my darling ! " 
 
 As he raised his sinewy hand to Heaven, I could 
 not help observing what power and force of cha- 
 racter it expressed. 
 
 " When my Em'ly found out as she was deceived, 
 and when she took flight from the house in foreign 
 parts wheer she was made a pris'ner by that 
 theer spotted snake, she took flight in the night. 
 It was a dark night, with a many stars a shining 
 She was wild. She ran along the sea beach, 
 
A READING. 81 
 
 believing the old boat was theer ; and calling out 
 to us to turn away our faces, for she was a coming 
 by. Ever so fur she run, and there was fire afore 
 her eyes and roarings in her ears. Of a sudden — 
 or so she thowt, you unnerstand — the day broke, 
 wet and windy, and she was lying b'low a heap of 
 stone upon the shore, and a woman was speaking 
 to her, saying, in the language of that country 
 what was it as had gone so much amiss ? " 
 
 He saw everything he related. It passed be- 
 fore him, as he spoke, vividly. 
 
 " As Em'ly's eyes — which was heavy — see this 
 woman better, she know'd as she was one of them 
 as she had often talked to on the beach. Fur, 
 though she had run (as I have said) ever so fur in 
 the night, she had oftentimes wandered long ways 
 partly afoot, partly in boats and carriages, and 
 know'd all that country, 'long the coast, miles 
 and miles. She hadn't no children of her own, 
 this woman, being a young wife ; but she was a 
 looking to have one afore long. And may my 
 prayers go up to Heaven that 'twill be a happ'ness 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 to her, and a comfort, and a honour, all her life ! 
 May it love her and be dootiful to her in her old 
 age; helpful of her at the last; a Angel to her 
 heer, and heerafter ! Em'ly told her, and she — 
 took her home. 
 
 He was more affected by this act of kindness, 
 than I had ever seen him affected by anything 
 since the night she went away. 
 
 " It was a little cottage, you may suppose, but 
 she found space for Em'ly in it, — her husband 
 was away at sea, — and she kep it secret, and 
 prevailed upon such neighbours as she had (theer 
 was not many near) to keep it secret too. Em'ly 
 was took bad with fever, and what is very strange 
 to me js, — maybe 'tis not so strange to scholars, 
 — the language of that country went out of her 
 head, and she could only speak her own, that 
 no one unnerstood. She recollects, as if she had 
 dreamed it, that she lay there, always a talking 
 her own tongue, always believing as the old boat 
 was round the next pint in the bay, and begging 
 and imploring of 'em to send theer and tell how 
 
A HEADING. 83 
 
 she was dying, and bring back a message of 
 forgiveness, if it was on'y a wured. How long 
 this lasted, I doen't know ; but then there come 
 a sleep; and in that sleep, from being a many 
 times stronger than her own self, she fell into 
 ■ the weakness of the littlest child." 
 
 Here he stopped, as if for relief from the terrors 
 of his own description. 
 
 " It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke ; 
 and so quiet, that there warn't a sound but the 
 rippling of that blue sea without a tide, upon 
 the shore. It was her belief, at first, that she 
 was at home upon a Sunday morning ; but, the 
 vine leaves as she see at the winder, and the hills 
 beyond, warn't home, and contradicted of her. 
 Then, come in her friend, to watch alongside of 
 her bed ; and then she know'd as the old boat 
 warn't round that next pint in the bay no more 
 but was fur off; and know'd where she was, and 
 why ; and broke out a crying on that good young 
 woman's bosom ! " 
 
 He could not speak of this good friend of 
 
 G 2 
 
84 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 Emily's. It was in vain to try. He broke dowa 
 again, endeavouring to bless her ! 
 
 "That done my Em'ly good, and she begun 
 to mend. But, the language of that country was. 
 quite gone from her, and she was forced to make 
 signs. So she went on, getting better from day to 
 day, slow, but sure, and trying to learn the names 
 of common things— names as she seemed never t& 
 have beared in all her life — till one evening come, 
 when she was a setting at her window, looking 
 at a little girl at play upon the beach. And of a 
 sudden this child held out her hand, and said, 
 what would be in English, ' Fisherman's daughter, 
 here's a shell ! ' — for you are to unnerstand that 
 they used at first to call her ' Pretty lady,' as 
 the general way in that country is, and that she 
 had taught 'em to call her ' Fisherman's daughter ' 
 instead. The child says of a sudden, ' Fisherman's 
 daughter, here's a shell ! " Then Em'ly unner- 
 stands her ; and she answers, bursting out a 
 crying ; and it all comes back ! 
 
 " When Em'ly got strong again, she cast about 
 
A READING. 85 
 
 to leave that good young creetur, and get to her 
 own country. The husband was come home, then ; 
 and the two together put her aboard a small 
 trader bound to Leghorn, and from that to France. 
 She had a little money ; but it was less than 
 little as they would take for all they done. I'm 
 a'most glad on it, though they was so poor ! What 
 they done is laid up wheer neither moth nor rust 
 doth corrupt, and wheer thieves do not break 
 through nor steal. Mas'r Davy, it'll outlast all 
 the treasure in the wureld. 
 
 " Em'ly got to France, and took service to wait 
 on travelling ladies at a inn in the port. Theer, 
 theer come, one day, that snake. — Let him never 
 come nigh me. I doen't know what hurt I might 
 do him ! — Soon as she see him, without him seeing 
 her, all her fear and wildness returned upon her, 
 and she fled afore the very breath he draw'd. She 
 come to England, and was set ashore at Dover. 
 
 " I doen't know for sure, when her art begun 
 to faU her ; but all the way to England she had 
 thowt to come right straight to her dear home. 
 
86 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 Soon as she got to England she turned her face 
 tow'rds it. But, fear of not being forgiv, fear of 
 being pinted at, fear of some of us being dead 
 along of her, fear of many things, turned her from 
 it, kiender by force, upon the road : ' Uncle, 
 uncle,' she says to me last night, ' I turned back, 
 when my art was full of prayers that I might 
 crawl to the old doorstep, in the night, kiss it, lay 
 my wicked face upon it, and theer be found dead 
 in the morning." 
 
 " She come to London. She — as had never 
 seen it in her life — alone — without a penny — 
 young — so pretty — come to London. A'most the 
 moment as she lighted heer, all so desolate, she 
 found (as she believed) a friend, a decent woman 
 as spoke to her about the needle-work as she had 
 been brought up to do, about finding plenty of it 
 fur her, about a lodging for the night, and 
 making secret inquiration concerning of me and 
 all at home, to-morrow. When my child stood 
 upon the brink of more than I can say or think on 
 — I found and saved her ! " 
 
A READING. 87 
 
 I could not repress a cry of joy. 
 
 " Mas'r Davy ! " he said, gripping my hand in 
 that strong hand of his, " I know'd of bitter 
 knowledge wheer to watch and what to do.. And 
 the Lord was above all ! I come upon Em'ly in 
 her sleep. Them belonging to the house would 
 have stopped me, but they might as soon have 
 stopped the sea. ' Stand away from me,' I says, 
 ' I call her from beside her open grave ! ' My 
 Em'ly swouned away. I wrapped her, hasty, in 
 her clothes. I took her in my arms. I kissed her 
 face. I laid it heer, and hid it with a hankercher. 
 I brought her safe out, in the dead of the night, 
 from that black pit of ruin ! All night long, we 
 have been together, Em'ly and me. All night 
 long, her arms has been about my neck, and her 
 head has laid heer; and we knows full well, 
 as we can put our trust in one another ever- 
 more." 
 
 He ceased to speak, and his hand upon the 
 table rested there in perfect repose, with a resolu- 
 tion in it that might have conquered lions. 
 
88 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 "You have made up your mind as to the 
 future, good friend ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mas'r Davy, theer's mighty countries, 
 fur from heer. Our future life lays over the 
 sea." 
 
 As he gave me both his hands, hurrying to 
 return to the one charge of his noble existence, I 
 thought of Ham. Who would break the intelli- 
 gence to him ? Mr. Peggotty thought of every- 
 thing. He had already written to the poor fellow, 
 and had the letter in the pocket of his xough coat, 
 ready for the post. I asked him for it, and. said 
 I would go down to Yarmouth, and talk to Ham 
 myself before I gave it him, and prepare him for 
 its contents. He thanked me very earnestly, and 
 we parted, with the understanding that I would go 
 down by the Mail that same night. In the even- 
 ing I started. 
 
 " Don't you think that," I asked the coachman, 
 in the first stage out of London, " a very re- 
 markable sky? I don't remember to have ever 
 seen one like it." 
 
A READING. 89 
 
 "Nor I. That's wind, sir. There'll be mis- 
 chief done at sea before long." 
 
 It was a nmrky confusion— here and there 
 blotted with a colour like the colour of the smoke 
 from damp fuel — of flying clouds tossed up into 
 most remarkable heaps, suggesting greater heights 
 in the clouds than there are depths below them 
 to the bottom of the deepest hollows in the earth : 
 through which the wild moon seemed to plunge 
 headlong, as if, in a dread disturbance of the 
 laws of nature, she had lost her way. There 
 had been a wind all day ; and it was rising then, 
 with an extraordinary great sound. In another 
 hour it had much increased, and the sky was more 
 overcast, and it blew hard. 
 
 But, as the night advanced, the clouds closing 
 in and densely overspreading the whole sky then 
 very dark, it came on to blow, harder and harder. 
 It still increased, until our horses could scarcely 
 face the wind. Many times, in the dark part of 
 the night (it was then late in September, when 
 the nights were not short), the leaders turned 
 
90 DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 
 
 about, or came to a dead stop ; and we were often 
 in serious apprehension that the coach would be 
 blown over. Sweeping gusts of rain came up 
 before this storm, like showers of steel ; and 
 at those times, when there was any shelter of 
 trees or lee walls to be got, we were fain to 
 stop, in a sheer impossibility of continuing the 
 struggle. 
 
 When the day broke, the wind blew harder and 
 harder. I had been in Yarmouth when the sea- 
 men said it blew great guns, but I had never 
 known the like of this, or anything approaching 
 to it. We came to Ipswich — very late, having 
 had to fight every inch of ground since we were 
 ten miles out of London ; and found a clvister of 
 people in the market-place, who had risen from 
 their beds in the night, fearful of falling chim- 
 neys. Some of these told us of great sheets of 
 lead having been ripped off a high church-tower, 
 and flung into a bye-street. Others had to tell 
 of country people, coming in from neighbouring 
 villages, who had seen great trees lying torn out 
 
A READING. 91 
 
 of the earth, and whole ricks scattered about the 
 roads and fields. Still, there was no abatement in 
 the storm, but it blew harder. 
 
 As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the 
 sea, from which this mighty wind was blowing 
 dead on shore, its force became more and more 
 terrific. When we came within sight of the sen, 
 the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals 
 above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of 
 another shore with towers and buildings. When 
 at last we got into the town, the people came out 
 to their doors, all aslant and with streaming hair, 
 making a wonder of the mail that had come 
 through such a night. 
 
 The tremendous sea itself, when I could find 
 sufficient pause to look at it, in the agitation 
 of the blinding wind, the flying stones and sand, 
 and the awful noise, confounded me. As the high 
 watery walls came rolling in, and tumbled into 
 surf, they looked as if the least would engulf the 
 town. As the receding wave swept back with a 
 hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop out deep caves in 
 
92 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 the beach. "When some white-headed billows 
 thundered on, and dashed themselves to pieces 
 before they reached the land, every fragment of the 
 late whole seemed possessed by the full might of 
 its wrath, rushing to be gathered to the comppsi- 
 tion of another monster. Undulating hills were 
 changed to valleys ; undulating valleys were 
 lifted up to hills ; masses of water shivered 
 and shook the beach with a booming • sound ; 
 every shape rolled on, as soon as made, to change 
 its shape and place, and beat another shape and 
 place away ; the ideal shore on the horizon with 
 its towers and buildings, rose and fell ; the clouds 
 flew fast and thick ; I seemed to see a rending and 
 upheaving of all nature. 
 
 Not finding Ham among the people whom this 
 memorable wind^for it is still remembered down 
 there as the greatest ever known to blow upon 
 that coast — had broaght together on the beach, I 
 made my way to his house. It was shut ; and as 
 no one answered to my knocking, I went by back 
 ways and by-lanes to the yard where he worked. 
 
A READING. 93 
 
 I learned, there, that he had gone some miles 
 away, to meet a sudden exigency of ship-repair- 
 ing in which his skill was required ; but that he 
 would be back to-morrow morning in good 
 time. 
 
 I went back to the inn ; and when I had washed 
 and dressed, and tried to sleep, but in vain, it 
 was five o'clock in the afternoon. I had not sat 
 five minutes by the coft'ee-room fire, when the 
 waiter coming to stir it, as an excuse for talking, 
 told me that two colliers had gone down, with all 
 hands, a few miles ofi"; and that some other 
 ships had been seen labouring hard in the Roads, 
 and trying, in gi-eat distress, to keep oft" shore. 
 Mercy on them, and on all poor sailors, said he, 
 if we had another night like the last ! 
 
 I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not 
 continue stedfast to anything. Something within 
 me, faintly answering to the storm without, tossed 
 up the depths of my memory, wild running with 
 the thundering sea. My dinner went away almost 
 untasted, and I tried to refresh myself with a 
 
94 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 glass or two of wine. In vain. I walked to and 
 fro, tried to read an old gazetteer, listened to the 
 awful noises : looked at faces, scenes, and figures 
 in the fire. At length, the steady ticking of the 
 undisturbed clock on the wall, tormented me to 
 that degree that I resolved to go to bed. 
 
 For hours I lay there, listening to the wind 
 and water ; imagining, now, that I heard shrieks 
 out at sea ; now, that I distinctly heard the firing 
 of signal guns ; now, the fall of houses in the 
 town. At length, my restlessness attained to 
 such a pitch, that I hurried on my clothes, and 
 went down-staii's. In the large kitchen, all the 
 inn servants and some other watchers were clus- 
 tered together, about a table, purposely moved 
 away from the great chimney. One man, refer- 
 ring to the topic they had been discussing, asked 
 me whether I thought the souls of the collier- 
 crews who had gone down, were out in the 
 storm ? 
 
 I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once, 
 I opened the yard-gate, and looked into the empty 
 
A KEAUING. 95 
 
 street. The sand, the sea-weed, and the flakes 
 of foam, were driving by, and I was obliged to 
 call for assistance before I could shut the gate 
 again, and make it fast against the wind. 
 
 There was a dark gloom in my lonely chamber, 
 when I at length returned to it ; but I was tired 
 now, and, getting into bed again, fell — ofl" a tower 
 and down a precipice — into the depths of sleep. 
 I dreamed of being engaged with two dear friends 
 — but who they were I don't know — at the siege 
 of some town in a roar of cannonading. 
 
 The thunder of the cannon was so loud and 
 incessant, that I could not hear something I much 
 desired to hear, until I made a great exertion, 
 and awoke. It was broad day — eight or nine 
 o'clock ; the storm was raging, in lieu of the bat- 
 teries ; and some one was knocking and calling at 
 my door. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " 
 
 " A wreck ! Close by ! " 
 
 " What wreck ? " 
 
 " A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden 
 
96 DAVIT) COPPERFIELD. 
 
 with fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want 
 to see her ! It's thought, down on the beach, 
 she'll go to pieces every moment." 
 
 I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as 
 1 could, and ran into the street. Numbers of 
 people were there before me, all running in one 
 direction, to the beach. I ran the same way, 
 outstripping a good many, and soon came facing 
 the wild sea. Every appearance it had before 
 presented, bore the expression of being swelled; 
 and the height to which the breakers rose, and 
 bore one another down, and rolled in, in inter- 
 minable hosts, was most appalling. 
 
 In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind 
 and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable 
 confusion, and my first breathless efforts to stand 
 against the weather, I was so confused that I 
 looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing 
 but the foaming heads of the great waves. A 
 half-dressed boatman, standing next me, pointed 
 to the left. Then, great Heaven, I saw it, close 
 in upon us ! 
 
A READING. 97 
 
 One mast was broken short ofl", six or eight feet 
 from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled 
 in a maze of sail and rigging ; and all that ruin, 
 as the ship rolled and beat — which she did with- 
 out a moment's pause, and with a violence quite 
 inconceivable — ^beat the side as if it would stave 
 it in. Some efforts were being made, to cut this 
 portion of the wreck away ; for, as the ship, 
 which was broadside on, turned towards us in 
 her rolling, I plainly descried her people at 
 work with axes — especially one active figure 
 with long curling hair. But, a great ciy, which 
 was audible even above the wind and water, 
 rose from the shore at this moment ; the sea, 
 sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean 
 breach, and carried men, spars, casks, planks, 
 bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boiling 
 surge. 
 
 The second mast was yet standing, with the rags 
 of a rent sail, and a wild confusion of broken cord- 
 age flapping to and fro. The ship had struck 
 once, the same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, 
 
 H 
 
98 UAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 and then lifted in and struck again. I understood 
 him to add that she was parting amidships, and I 
 could readily suppose so, for the rolling and beat- 
 ing were too tremendous for any human work to 
 suffer long. As he spoke, there was another great 
 cry of pity from the beach. Four men arose with 
 the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging 
 of the remaining mast ; uppermost, the active 
 figure with the curling hair. 
 
 There was a bell on board ; and as the ship 
 rolled and dashed, like a desperate creature 
 driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep of 
 her deck, as she turned on her beam-ends to- 
 wards the shore, now nothing but her keel as 
 she sprung wildly over and turned towards the 
 sea, this bell rang ; and its, sound, the knell of 
 those unhappy men, was borne towards us on the 
 wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose. 
 Two men were gone. The agony on shore in- 
 creased. Men groaned, and clasped their hands ; 
 women shrieked, and turned away their faces. 
 Some ran wildly up and down, crying for help 
 
A BEADING. 99 
 
 where no help could be. I found myself one of 
 these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors 
 whom I knew, not to let those two lost creatures 
 perish before our eyes. 
 
 They were making out to me, in an agitated 
 way — I don't know how, for the little I could 
 hear I was scarcely composed enough to under- 
 stand — that the life-boat had been bravely manned 
 an hour ago, and could do nothing ; and that as 
 no man would be so desperate as to attempt to 
 wade off with a rope, and establish a communica- 
 tion with the shore, there was nothing left to 
 try ; when I noticed that some new sensation 
 moved the people on the beach, and saw them 
 part, and Ham come breaking through them to 
 the front. 
 
 I ran to him. I held him back with both 
 arms ; and implored the men with whom I had 
 been speaking, not to listen to him, not to let him 
 stir from off that sand ! 
 
 Another cry arose on shore ; and looking to 
 the wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on 
 
100 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 blow, beat off the lower of the two men, and 
 fly up in triumph round the active figure left 
 alone upon the mast. 
 
 Against such a sight, and against such deter- 
 mination as that of the calmly desperate man 
 who was already accustomed to lead half the 
 people present, I might as hopefully have en- 
 treated the wind. " Mas'r Davy," he said, 
 cheerily grasping me by both hands, " if my time 
 is come, 'tis come. If 't a'nt, I'll bide it. Lord 
 above bless you, and bless all ! Mates, make 
 me ready ! I'm a going off ! " 
 
 I was swept away to some distance, where the 
 people around me made me stay ; urging, as I 
 confusedly perceived, that he was bent on going, 
 with help or without, and that I should endanger 
 the precautions for his safety by troubling those 
 with whom they rested. I saw hurry on the 
 beach, and men running with ropes from a cap- 
 stan that was there, and penetrating into a circle 
 of figures that hid him from me. Then, I saw 
 him standing alone, in a seaman's frock and 
 
A READING. 101 
 
 trowsers : a rope in his hand, or slung to his 
 wrist : another round his body : and several of 
 the best men holding to the latter, which he 
 laid out himself, slack upon the shore, at his 
 feet. 
 
 The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, 
 was breaking up. I saw that she was parting 
 in the middle, and that the life of the solitary 
 man upon the mast hung by a thread. Still, he 
 clung to it. He had a singular red cap on, — not 
 like a sailor's cap, but of a finer colour ; and as the 
 few yielding planks between him and destruction 
 rolled and bulged, and as his anticipative death- 
 knell rung, he was seen by all of us to wave it. I 
 saw him do it now, and thought I was going dis- 
 tracted, when his action brought an old remem- 
 brance to my mind of a once dear iviend—tJie 
 once dear friend — Steerforth. 
 
 Ham watched the sea, with the silence of 
 suspended breath behind him, and the storm 
 before, until there was a great retiring wave ; 
 when he dashed in after it, and in a moment was 
 
102 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 buffeting with the water, rising with the hills, 
 falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam ; 
 then he was drawn again to land. 
 
 He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from 
 where I stood ; but he took no thought of that. 
 He seemed to give them some directions for 
 leaving him more free — or so T judged from the 
 motion of his arm — and was gone as before. 
 
 And now he made for the wreck, rising with 
 the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath 
 the foam, borne in towards the shore, borne 
 on towards the ship. The distance was nothing, 
 but the power of the sea and wind made the 
 strife deadly. At length he neared the wreck. 
 He was so near, that with one more of his 
 vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it, — 
 when, a high green vast hill-side of water, 
 moving on shoreward, from beyond the ship, he 
 seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound 
 — and the ship wa^ gone ! « 
 
 Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as 
 if a mere cask had been broken in. Consterna- 
 
A READING. 103 
 
 tion was ia every face. They drew him to my 
 very feet— insensible — dead. He was carried to 
 the nearest \ house ; and I remained near him, 
 busy, while every means of restoration were 
 tried ; but he had been beaten to death by the 
 great wave, and his generous heart was stilled 
 for ever. 
 
 As I sat beside the bed, when hope was aban- 
 doned and all was done, a fisherman, who had 
 known me when Emily and I were children, and 
 ever since, whispered my name at the door. 
 
 " Sir, will you come over yonder ? ". 
 
 The old remembrance that had been recalled to 
 me, was in his look. I asked him, leaning on the 
 arm he held out to support me : 
 
 " Has a body come ashore ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do I know it ? " 
 
 He answered nothing. But, he led me to the 
 shore. And on that part of it where she and I 
 had looked for shells, two children — on that part 
 of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat, 
 
104 DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 
 
 blown down last night, had been scattered by the 
 wind — among the ruins of the home he had 
 wronged — I saw him lying with his head upon 
 Lis arm, as I had often seen him lie at school. 
 
 THE END OF THE HEADING. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED Bl WILLIiJl CLOWES AND SONS, STAMyOBD STREET. 
 
JUST PUBLISHED. 
 UNIFORM WITH 'DAVID COPPERFIELD: A READING.' 
 
 A limited edition of 2y^ numbered copies, of which 250 only are 
 for sale in England and A mcrica. 
 
 SIKES AND NANCY: 
 
 a IReabtna 
 By CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Reprinted from the almost unique copy originally in the possession 
 of SIR HENRY IR VING. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND 
 GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE READING EDITIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 J. HARRISON STONEHOUSE, 
 
 Autlwr of 
 
 ' Charles Dickens and Afan'a Beadnell ' (Ihe original Dora of 'David Copperfield'), 
 
 privately printed by t/ie Bibliophile Society, Boston, Mass. 
 
 8vo. grey boards, paper label, 
 
 Price 15s. nett. 
 
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 Dickens's reading, reprinted from the private issue of 1870.' — TheNation and Athenccum. 
 
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