Chapter: I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when my school-days
drew to an end, and the time came for my leaving Doctor Strong's. I had
been very happy there, I had a great attachment for the Doctor, and I
was eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these reasons
I was sorry to go; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I
was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of
the importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of the
wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal, and the
wonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society, lured me away.
So powerful were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that
I seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left school
without natural regret. The separation has not made the impression on
me, that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt
about it, and what its circumstances were; but it is not momentous in my
recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know that my
juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then; and that life was
more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin to read,
than anything else.

My aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the calling to which
I should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to find a
satisfactory answer to her often-repeated question, 'What I would like
to be?' But I had no particular liking, that I could discover, for
anything. If I could have been inspired with a knowledge of the science
of navigation, taken the command of a fast-sailing expedition, and gone
round the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery, I think I might
have considered myself completely suited. But, in the absence of any
such miraculous provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit
that would not lie too heavily upon her purse; and to do my duty in it,
whatever it might be.

Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a meditative
and sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once; and on that
occasion (I don't know what put it in his head), he suddenly proposed
that I should be 'a Brazier'. My aunt received this proposal so very
ungraciously, that he never ventured on a second; but ever afterwards
confined himself to looking watchfully at her for her suggestions, and
rattling his money.

'Trot, I tell you what, my dear,' said my aunt, one morning in the
Christmas season when I left school: 'as this knotty point is still
unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we can
help it, I think we had better take a little breathing-time. In the
meanwhile, you must try to look at it from a new point of view, and not
as a schoolboy.'

'I will, aunt.'

'It has occurred to me,' pursued my aunt, 'that a little change, and a
glimpse of life out of doors, may be useful in helping you to know your
own mind, and form a cooler judgement. Suppose you were to go down into
the old part of the country again, for instance, and see that--that
out-of-the-way woman with the savagest of names,' said my aunt, rubbing
her nose, for she could never thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so
called.

'Of all things in the world, aunt, I should like it best!'

'Well,' said my aunt, 'that's lucky, for I should like it too. But
it's natural and rational that you should like it. And I am very
well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will always be natural and
rational.'

'I hope so, aunt.'

'Your sister, Betsey Trotwood,' said my aunt, 'would have been as
natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You'll be worthy of her,
won't you?'

'I hope I shall be worthy of YOU, aunt. That will be enough for me.'

'It's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn't live,'
said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, 'or she'd have been so vain
of her boy by this time, that her soft little head would have been
completely turned, if there was anything of it left to turn.' (My aunt
always excused any weakness of her own in my behalf, by transferring it
in this way to my poor mother.) 'Bless me, Trotwood, how you do remind
me of her!'

'Pleasantly, I hope, aunt?' said I.

'He's as like her, Dick,' said my aunt, emphatically, 'he's as like her,
as she was that afternoon before she began to fret--bless my heart, he's
as like her, as he can look at me out of his two eyes!'

'Is he indeed?' said Mr. Dick.

'And he's like David, too,' said my aunt, decisively.

'He is very like David!' said Mr. Dick.

'But what I want you to be, Trot,' resumed my aunt, '--I don't mean
physically, but morally; you are very well physically--is, a firm
fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolution,'
said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her hand. 'With
determination. With character, Trot--with strength of character that is
not to be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody, or by anything.
That's what I want you to be. That's what your father and mother might
both have been, Heaven knows, and been the better for it.'

I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.

'That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance upon yourself,
and to act for yourself,' said my aunt, 'I shall send you upon your
trip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr. Dick's going with you; but, on
second thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me.'

Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed; until the honour
and dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful woman in the
world, restored the sunshine to his face.

'Besides,' said my aunt, 'there's the Memorial--'

'Oh, certainly,' said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, 'I intend, Trotwood, to get
that done immediately--it really must be done immediately! And then it
will go in, you know--and then--' said Mr. Dick, after checking himself,
and pausing a long time, 'there'll be a pretty kettle of fish!'

In pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, I was shortly afterwards fitted
out with a handsome purse of money, and a portmanteau, and tenderly
dismissed upon my expedition. At parting, my aunt gave me some good
advice, and a good many kisses; and said that as her object was that I
should look about me, and should think a little, she would recommend me
to stay a few days in London, if I liked it, either on my way down into
Suffolk, or in coming back. In a word, I was at liberty to do what I
would, for three weeks or a month; and no other conditions were imposed
upon my freedom than the before-mentioned thinking and looking about me,
and a pledge to write three times a week and faithfully report myself.

I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Agnes and Mr.
Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had not yet relinquished), and
also of the good Doctor. Agnes was very glad to see me, and told me that
the house had not been like itself since I had left it.

'I am sure I am not like myself when I am away,' said I. 'I seem to
want my right hand, when I miss you. Though that's not saying much; for
there's no head in my right hand, and no heart. Everyone who knows you,
consults with you, and is guided by you, Agnes.'

'Everyone who knows me, spoils me, I believe,' she answered, smiling.

'No. It's because you are like no one else. You are so good, and so
sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you are always
right.'

'You talk,' said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as she sat at
work, 'as if I were the late Miss Larkins.'

'Come! It's not fair to abuse my confidence,' I answered, reddening at
the recollection of my blue enslaver. 'But I shall confide in you, just
the same, Agnes. I can never grow out of that. Whenever I fall into
trouble, or fall in love, I shall always tell you, if you'll let
me--even when I come to fall in love in earnest.'

'Why, you have always been in earnest!' said Agnes, laughing again.

'Oh! that was as a child, or a schoolboy,' said I, laughing in my turn,
not without being a little shame-faced. 'Times are altering now, and I
suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness one day or other.
My wonder is, that you are not in earnest yourself, by this time,
Agnes.'

Agnes laughed again, and shook her head.

'Oh, I know you are not!' said I, 'because if you had been you would
have told me. Or at least'--for I saw a faint blush in her face, 'you
would have let me find it out for myself. But there is no one that I
know of, who deserves to love you, Agnes. Someone of a nobler character,
and more worthy altogether than anyone I have ever seen here, must rise
up, before I give my consent. In the time to come, I shall have a wary
eye on all admirers; and shall exact a great deal from the successful
one, I assure you.'

We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest and earnest,
that had long grown naturally out of our familiar relations, begun as
mere children. But Agnes, now suddenly lifting up her eyes to mine, and
speaking in a different manner, said:

'Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and that I may not
have another opportunity of asking for a long time, perhaps--something
I would ask, I think, of no one else. Have you observed any gradual
alteration in Papa?'

I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too. I must
have shown as much, now, in my face; for her eyes were in a moment cast
down, and I saw tears in them.

'Tell me what it is,' she said, in a low voice.

'I think--shall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so much?'

'Yes,' she said.

'I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased upon
him since I first came here. He is often very nervous--or I fancy so.'

'It is not fancy,' said Agnes, shaking her head.

'His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes look wild. I
have remarked that at those times, and when he is least like himself, he
is most certain to be wanted on some business.'

'By Uriah,' said Agnes.

'Yes; and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having understood
it, or of having shown his condition in spite of himself, seems to make
him so uneasy, that next day he is worse, and next day worse, and so he
becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but
in this state I saw him, only the other evening, lay down his head upon
his desk, and shed tears like a child.'

Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking, and in
a moment she had met her father at the door of the room, and was hanging
on his shoulder. The expression of her face, as they both looked towards
me, I felt to be very touching. There was such deep fondness for him,
and gratitude to him for all his love and care, in her beautiful look;
and there was such a fervent appeal to me to deal tenderly by him, even
in my inmost thoughts, and to let no harsh construction find any place
against him; she was, at once, so proud of him and devoted to him, yet
so compassionate and sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too; that
nothing she could have said would have expressed more to me, or moved me
more.

We were to drink tea at the Doctor's. We went there at the usual hour;
and round the study fireside found the Doctor, and his young wife, and
her mother. The Doctor, who made as much of my going away as if I were
going to China, received me as an honoured guest; and called for a log
of wood to be thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of his old
pupil reddening in the blaze.

'I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood's stead, Wickfield,'
said the Doctor, warming his hands; 'I am getting lazy, and want ease.
I shall relinquish all my young people in another six months, and lead a
quieter life.'

'You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor,' Mr. Wickfield
answered.

'But now I mean to do it,' returned the Doctor. 'My first master will
succeed me--I am in earnest at last--so you'll soon have to arrange our
contracts, and to bind us firmly to them, like a couple of knaves.'

'And to take care,' said Mr. Wickfield, 'that you're not imposed on, eh?
As you certainly would be, in any contract you should make for yourself.
Well! I am ready. There are worse tasks than that, in my calling.'

'I shall have nothing to think of then,' said the Doctor, with a smile,
'but my Dictionary; and this other contract-bargain--Annie.'

As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea table by Agnes,
she seemed to me to avoid his look with such unwonted hesitation and
timidity, that his attention became fixed upon her, as if something were
suggested to his thoughts.

'There is a post come in from India, I observe,' he said, after a short
silence.

'By the by! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon!' said the Doctor.

'Indeed!' 'Poor dear Jack!' said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head. 'That
trying climate!--like living, they tell me, on a sand-heap, underneath
a burning-glass! He looked strong, but he wasn't. My dear Doctor, it was
his spirit, not his constitution, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie,
my dear, I am sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousin
never was strong--not what can be called ROBUST, you know,' said Mrs.
Markleham, with emphasis, and looking round upon us generally, '--from
the time when my daughter and himself were children together, and
walking about, arm-in-arm, the livelong day.'

Annie, thus addressed, made no reply.

'Do I gather from what you say, ma'am, that Mr. Maldon is ill?' asked
Mr. Wickfield.

'Ill!' replied the Old Soldier. 'My dear sir, he's all sorts of things.'

'Except well?' said Mr. Wickfield.

'Except well, indeed!' said the Old Soldier. 'He has had dreadful
strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues, and every
kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver,' said the Old Soldier
resignedly, 'that, of course, he gave up altogether, when he first went
out!'

'Does he say all this?' asked Mr. Wickfield.

'Say? My dear sir,' returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head and her
fan, 'you little know my poor Jack Maldon when you ask that question.
Say? Not he. You might drag him at the heels of four wild horses first.'

'Mama!' said Mrs. Strong.

'Annie, my dear,' returned her mother, 'once for all, I must really beg
that you will not interfere with me, unless it is to confirm what I say.
You know as well as I do that your cousin Maldon would be dragged at the
heels of any number of wild horses--why should I confine myself to four!
I WON'T confine myself to four--eight, sixteen, two-and-thirty, rather
than say anything calculated to overturn the Doctor's plans.'

'Wickfield's plans,' said the Doctor, stroking his face, and looking
penitently at his adviser. 'That is to say, our joint plans for him. I
said myself, abroad or at home.'

'And I said' added Mr. Wickfield gravely, 'abroad. I was the means of
sending him abroad. It's my responsibility.'

'Oh! Responsibility!' said the Old Soldier. 'Everything was done for
the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield; everything was done for the kindest and
best, we know. But if the dear fellow can't live there, he can't live
there. And if he can't live there, he'll die there, sooner than he'll
overturn the Doctor's plans. I know him,' said the Old Soldier, fanning
herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony, 'and I know he'll die there,
sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans.'

'Well, well, ma'am,' said the Doctor cheerfully, 'I am not bigoted to
my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some other
plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill health, he must
not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to make some more
suitable and fortunate provision for him in this country.'

Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech--which, I need
not say, she had not at all expected or led up to--that she could only
tell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several times through that
operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his hand
with it. After which she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not being
more demonstrative when such kindnesses were showered, for her sake, on
her old playfellow; and entertained us with some particulars concerning
other deserving members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on
their deserving legs.

All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or lifted up her
eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as she sat
by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he never thought of
being observed by anyone; but was so intent upon her, and upon his own
thoughts in connexion with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked
what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to himself, and
to whom he had written?

'Why, here,' said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-piece
above the Doctor's head, 'the dear fellow says to the Doctor
himself--where is it? Oh!--"I am sorry to inform you that my health is
suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity
of returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration." That's
pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie's
letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again.'

'Not now, mama,' she pleaded in a low tone.

'My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most
ridiculous persons in the world,' returned her mother, 'and perhaps the
most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have
heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself.
Do you call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am
surprised. You ought to know better.'

The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old lady,
I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it, trembled.

'Now let us see,' said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her eye,
'where the passage is. "The remembrance of old times, my dearest
Annie"--and so forth--it's not there. "The amiable old Proctor"--who's
he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how
stupid I am! "Doctor," of course. Ah! amiable indeed!' Here she left
off, to kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was looking
at us in a state of placid satisfaction. 'Now I have found it. "You may
not be surprised to hear, Annie,"--no, to be sure, knowing that he never
was really strong; what did I say just now?--"that I have undergone
so much in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all
hazards; on sick leave, if I can; on total resignation, if that is
not to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is
insupportable." And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures,'
said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and refolding
the letter, 'it would be insupportable to me to think of.'

Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as if
for his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely silent, with
his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject was dismissed,
and other topics occupied us, he remained so; seldom raising his eyes,
unless to rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful frown, upon the
Doctor, or his wife, or both.

The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness and
expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together, and played duets
together, and we had quite a little concert. But I remarked two things:
first, that though Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quite
herself, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which separated
them wholly from each other; secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed
to dislike the intimacy between her and Agnes, and to watch it with
uneasiness. And now, I must confess, the recollection of what I had seen
on that night when Mr. Maldon went away, first began to return upon me
with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent beauty
of her face was not as innocent to me as it had been; I mistrusted the
natural grace and charm of her manner; and when I looked at Agnes by her
side, and thought how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose within
me that it was an ill-assorted friendship.

She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so happy too,
that they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour. It closed
in an incident which I well remember. They were taking leave of each
other, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr.
Wickfield stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnes
quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening time had been
cancelled, and I were still standing in the doorway on the night of the
departure, the expression of that night in the face of Mrs. Strong, as
it confronted his.

I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible I
found it, when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from this
look, and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It haunted
me when I got home. I seemed to have left the Doctor's roof with a dark
cloud lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his grey head, was
mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous
to him, and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending
shadow of a great affliction, and a great disgrace that had no distinct
form in it yet, fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had
worked and played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure
in thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees, which
remained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim
smooth grass-plot, and the stone urns, and the Doctor's walk, and the
congenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as
if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face,
and its peace and honour given to the winds.

But morning brought with it my parting from the old house, which Agnes
had filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind sufficiently.
I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might sleep again--perhaps
often--in my old room; but the days of my inhabiting there were gone,
and the old time was past. I was heavier at heart when I packed up such
of my books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover,
than I cared to show to Uriah Heep; who was so officious to help me,
that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I was going.

I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indifferent show
of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of the London coach.
I was so softened and forgiving, going through the town, that I had half
a mind to nod to my old enemy the butcher, and throw him five shillings
to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stood
scraping the great block in the shop, and moreover, his appearance was
so little improved by the loss of a front tooth which I had knocked out,
that I thought it best to make no advances.

The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road,
was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak extremely
gruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience; but
I stuck to it, because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.

'You are going through, sir?' said the coachman.

'Yes, William,' I said, condescendingly (I knew him); 'I am going to
London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.'

'Shooting, sir?' said the coachman.

He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of
year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.

'I don't know,' I said, pretending to be undecided, 'whether I shall
take a shot or not.' 'Birds is got wery shy, I'm told,' said William.

'So I understand,' said I.

'Is Suffolk your county, sir?' asked William.

'Yes,' I said, with some importance. 'Suffolk's my county.'

'I'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,' said William.

I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the
institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them; so I
shook my head, as much as to say, 'I believe you!'

'And the Punches,' said William. 'There's cattle! A Suffolk Punch, when
he's a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any
Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?'

'N-no,' I said, 'not exactly.'

'Here's a gen'lm'n behind me, I'll pound it,' said William, 'as has bred
'em by wholesale.'

The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint,
and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat
brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way
up outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over
the coachman's shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled
the back of my head; and as I looked at him, he leered at the leaders
with the eye with which he didn't squint, in a very knowing manner.

'Ain't you?' asked William.

'Ain't I what?' said the gentleman behind.

'Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?'

'I should think so,' said the gentleman. 'There ain't no sort of orse
that I ain't bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some
men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me--lodging, wife, and
children--reading, writing, and Arithmetic--snuff, tobacker, and sleep.'

'That ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it
though?' said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.

I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have
my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

'Well, if you don't mind, sir,' said William, 'I think it would be more
correct.'

I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I
booked my place at the coach office I had had 'Box Seat' written against
the entry, and had given the book-keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in
a special great-coat and shawl, expressly to do honour to that
distinguished eminence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal; and
had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first
stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other
merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across
me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a
canter!

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small
occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not
stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury
coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spoke
from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt
completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there
behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with plenty of
money in my pocket; and to look out for the places where I had slept on
my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every
conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the trampers
whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up,
I felt as if the tinker's blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt
again. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I
caught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived
who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the
place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my
money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed the
veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy
hand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down
and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of
establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the
coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber,
which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault.
I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe
of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions
on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering
advice to my inexperience.

'Well now,' said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, 'what would you
like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general: have a fowl!'

I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn't in the humour for
a fowl.

'Ain't you?' said the waiter. 'Young gentlemen is generally tired of
beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!'

I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest
anything else.

'Do you care for taters?' said the waiter, with an insinuating smile,
and his head on one side. 'Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed
with taters.'

I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and
potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if there
were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire--which I knew there
were not, and couldn't be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.

He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much
surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the
fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it;
and on my replying 'Half a pint of sherry,' thought it a favourable
opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the
stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this
opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed him
behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very
busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemist
and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I
thought it flat; and it certainly had more English crumbs in it, than
were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, but
I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.

Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that
poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process), I
resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I chose;
and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the
new Pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and
walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern
taskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful
effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, the
influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company, the
smooth stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so
dazzling, and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I
came out into the rainy street, at twelve o'clock at night, I felt as if
I had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic life
for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted, umbrella-struggling,
hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking, muddy, miserable world.

I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street for a little
while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth: but the unceremonious
pushing and hustling that I received, soon recalled me to myself, and
put me in the road back to the hotel; whither I went, revolving the
glorious vision all the way; and where, after some porter and oysters,
I sat revolving it still, at past one o'clock, with my eyes on the
coffee-room fire.

I was so filled with the play, and with the past--for it was, in a
manner, like a shining transparency, through which I saw my earlier
life moving along--that I don't know when the figure of a handsome
well-formed young man dressed with a tasteful easy negligence which I
have reason to remember very well, became a real presence to me. But
I recollect being conscious of his company without having noticed his
coming in--and my still sitting, musing, over the coffee-room fire.

At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy waiter,
who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting them, and hitting
them, and putting them through all kinds of contortions in his small
pantry. In going towards the door, I passed the person who had come in,
and saw him plainly. I turned directly, came back, and looked again. He
did not know me, but I knew him in a moment.

At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision to
speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and might have
lost him. But, in the then condition of my mind, where the play was
still running high, his former protection of me appeared so deserving
of my gratitude, and my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly
and spontaneously, that I went up to him at once, with a fast-beating
heart, and said:

'Steerforth! won't you speak to me?'

He looked at me--just as he used to look, sometimes--but I saw no
recognition in his face.

'You don't remember me, I am afraid,' said I.

'My God!' he suddenly exclaimed. 'It's little Copperfield!'

I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. But for very
shame, and the fear that it might displease him, I could have held him
round the neck and cried.

'I never, never, never was so glad! My dear Steerforth, I am so
overjoyed to see you!'

'And I am rejoiced to see you, too!' he said, shaking my hands heartily.
'Why, Copperfield, old boy, don't be overpowered!' And yet he was glad,
too, I thought, to see how the delight I had in meeting him affected me.

I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had not been able to
keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat down together,
side by side.

'Why, how do you come to be here?' said Steerforth, clapping me on the
shoulder.

'I came here by the Canterbury coach, today. I have been adopted by
an aunt down in that part of the country, and have just finished my
education there. How do YOU come to be here, Steerforth?'

'Well, I am what they call an Oxford man,' he returned; 'that is to say,
I get bored to death down there, periodically--and I am on my way now to
my mother's. You're a devilish amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Just
what you used to be, now I look at you! Not altered in the least!'

'I knew you immediately,' I said; 'but you are more easily remembered.'

He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his hair,
and said gaily:

'Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way out of
town; and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house tedious
enough, I remained here tonight instead of going on. I have not been in
town half-a-dozen hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling away
at the play.'

'I have been at the play, too,' said I. 'At Covent Garden. What a
delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth!'

Steerforth laughed heartily.

'My dear young Davy,' he said, clapping me on the shoulder again, 'you
are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not fresher
than you are. I have been at Covent Garden, too, and there never was a
more miserable business. Holloa, you sir!'

This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to our
recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.

'Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?' said Steerforth.

'Beg your pardon, sir?'

'Where does he sleep? What's his number? You know what I mean,' said
Steerforth.

'Well, sir,' said the waiter, with an apologetic air. 'Mr. Copperfield
is at present in forty-four, sir.'

'And what the devil do you mean,' retorted Steerforth, 'by putting Mr.
Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?'

'Why, you see we wasn't aware, sir,' returned the waiter, still
apologetically, 'as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can give
Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir, if it would be preferred. Next you,
sir.'

'Of course it would be preferred,' said Steerforth. 'And do it at once.'
The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth, very
much amused at my having been put into forty-four, laughed again, and
clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with him
next morning at ten o'clock--an invitation I was only too proud and
happy to accept. It being now pretty late, we took our candles and went
upstairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door, and
where I found my new room a great improvement on my old one, it not
being at all musty, and having an immense four-post bedstead in it,
which was quite a little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough for
six, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient
Rome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches,
rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the
gods.




When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o'clock, and informed
me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt severely the having no
occasion for it, and blushed in my bed. The suspicion that she laughed
too, when she said it, preyed upon my mind all the time I was dressing;
and gave me, I was conscious, a sneaking and guilty air when I passed
her on the staircase, as I was going down to breakfast. I was so
sensitively aware, indeed, of being younger than I could have wished,
that for some time I could not make up my mind to pass her at all, under
the ignoble circumstances of the case; but, hearing her there with
a broom, stood peeping out of window at King Charles on horseback,
surrounded by a maze of hackney-coaches, and looking anything but regal
in a drizzling rain and a dark-brown fog, until I was admonished by the
waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.

It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth expecting me, but
in a snug private apartment, red-curtained and Turkey-carpeted, where
the fire burnt bright, and a fine hot breakfast was set forth on a table
covered with a clean cloth; and a cheerful miniature of the room, the
fire, the breakfast, Steerforth, and all, was shining in the little
round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at first,
Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and superior to me in
all respects (age included); but his easy patronage soon put that to
rights, and made me quite at home. I could not enough admire the change
he had wrought in the Golden Cross; or compare the dull forlorn state
I had held yesterday, with this morning's comfort and this morning's
entertainment. As to the waiter's familiarity, it was quenched as if it
had never been. He attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.

'Now, Copperfield,' said Steerforth, when we were alone, 'I should like
to hear what you are doing, and where you are going, and all about you.
I feel as if you were my property.' Glowing with pleasure to find that
he had still this interest in me, I told him how my aunt had proposed
the little expedition that I had before me, and whither it tended.

'As you are in no hurry, then,' said Steerforth, 'come home with me to
Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will be pleased with my mother--she
is a little vain and prosy about me, but that you can forgive her--and
she will be pleased with you.'

'I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough to say you
are,' I answered, smiling.

'Oh!' said Steerforth, 'everyone who likes me, has a claim on her that
is sure to be acknowledged.'

'Then I think I shall be a favourite,' said I.

'Good!' said Steerforth. 'Come and prove it. We will go and see the
lions for an hour or two--it's something to have a fresh fellow like you
to show them to, Copperfield--and then we'll journey out to Highgate by
the coach.'

I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream, and that I should wake
presently in number forty-four, to the solitary box in the coffee-room
and the familiar waiter again. After I had written to my aunt and told
her of my fortunate meeting with my admired old schoolfellow, and my
acceptance of his invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot, and saw
a Panorama and some other sights, and took a walk through the Museum,
where I could not help observing how much Steerforth knew, on an
infinite variety of subjects, and of how little account he seemed to
make his knowledge.

'You'll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,' said I, 'if you have
not done so already; and they will have good reason to be proud of you.'

'I take a degree!' cried Steerforth. 'Not I! my dear Daisy--will you
mind my calling you Daisy?'

'Not at all!' said I.

'That's a good fellow! My dear Daisy,' said Steerforth, laughing. 'I
have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself in that
way. I have done quite sufficient for my purpose. I find that I am heavy
company enough for myself as I am.'

'But the fame--' I was beginning.

'You romantic Daisy!' said Steerforth, laughing still more heartily:
'why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may
gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There's
fame for him, and he's welcome to it.'

I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was glad to change
the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to do, for Steerforth
could always pass from one subject to another with a carelessness and
lightness that were his own.

Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short winter day wore away
so fast, that it was dusk when the stage-coach stopped with us at an
old brick house at Highgate on the summit of the hill. An elderly lady,
though not very far advanced in years, with a proud carriage and
a handsome face, was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting
Steerforth as 'My dearest James,' folded him in her arms. To this lady
he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately welcome.

It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly. From the
windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like a great
vapour, with here and there some lights twinkling through it. I had only
time, in dressing, to glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces
of work (done, I supposed, by Steerforth's mother when she was a girl),
and some pictures in crayons of ladies with powdered hair and bodices,
coming and going on the walls, as the newly-kindled fire crackled and
sputtered, when I was called to dinner.

There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight short figure,
dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with some appearance of good
looks too, who attracted my attention: perhaps because I had not
expected to see her; perhaps because I found myself sitting opposite
to her; perhaps because of something really remarkable in her. She had
black hair and eager black eyes, and was thin, and had a scar upon her
lip. It was an old scar--I should rather call it seam, for it was not
discoloured, and had healed years ago--which had once cut through her
mouth, downward towards the chin, but was now barely visible across
the table, except above and on her upper lip, the shape of which it had
altered. I concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty years
of age, and that she wished to be married. She was a little
dilapidated--like a house--with having been so long to let; yet had, as
I have said, an appearance of good looks. Her thinness seemed to be the
effect of some wasting fire within her, which found a vent in her gaunt
eyes.

She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his mother
called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had been for a long
time Mrs. Steerforth's companion. It appeared to me that she never said
anything she wanted to say, outright; but hinted it, and made a great
deal more of it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth
observed, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led but a
wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus:

'Oh, really? You know how ignorant I am, and that I only ask for
information, but isn't it always so? I thought that kind of life was
on all hands understood to be--eh?' 'It is education for a very grave
profession, if you mean that, Rosa,' Mrs. Steerforth answered with some
coldness.

'Oh! Yes! That's very true,' returned Miss Dartle. 'But isn't it,
though?--I want to be put right, if I am wrong--isn't it, really?'

'Really what?' said Mrs. Steerforth.

'Oh! You mean it's not!' returned Miss Dartle. 'Well, I'm very glad to
hear it! Now, I know what to do! That's the advantage of asking. I shall
never allow people to talk before me about wastefulness and profligacy,
and so forth, in connexion with that life, any more.'

'And you will be right,' said Mrs. Steerforth. 'My son's tutor is a
conscientious gentleman; and if I had not implicit reliance on my son, I
should have reliance on him.'

'Should you?' said Miss Dartle. 'Dear me! Conscientious, is he? Really
conscientious, now?'

'Yes, I am convinced of it,' said Mrs. Steerforth.

'How very nice!' exclaimed Miss Dartle. 'What a comfort! Really
conscientious? Then he's not--but of course he can't be, if he's really
conscientious. Well, I shall be quite happy in my opinion of him, from
this time. You can't think how it elevates him in my opinion, to know
for certain that he's really conscientious!'

Her own views of every question, and her correction of everything that
was said to which she was opposed, Miss Dartle insinuated in the same
way: sometimes, I could not conceal from myself, with great power,
though in contradiction even of Steerforth. An instance happened before
dinner was done. Mrs. Steerforth speaking to me about my intention
of going down into Suffolk, I said at hazard how glad I should be, if
Steerforth would only go there with me; and explaining to him that I was
going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peggotty's family, I reminded him of
the boatman whom he had seen at school.

'Oh! That bluff fellow!' said Steerforth. 'He had a son with him, hadn't
he?'

'No. That was his nephew,' I replied; 'whom he adopted, though, as
a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he adopted as a
daughter. In short, his house--or rather his boat, for he lives in one,
on dry land--is full of people who are objects of his generosity and
kindness. You would be delighted to see that household.'

'Should I?' said Steerforth. 'Well, I think I should. I must see what
can be done. It would be worth a journey (not to mention the pleasure of
a journey with you, Daisy), to see that sort of people together, and to
make one of 'em.'

My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was in reference
to the tone in which he had spoken of 'that sort of people', that Miss
Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of us, now broke in
again.

'Oh, but, really? Do tell me. Are they, though?' she said.

'Are they what? And are who what?' said Steerforth.

'That sort of people.---Are they really animals and clods, and beings of
another order? I want to know SO much.'

'Why, there's a pretty wide separation between them and us,' said
Steerforth, with indifference. 'They are not to be expected to be
as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to be shocked, or hurt
easily. They are wonderfully virtuous, I dare say--some people contend
for that, at least; and I am sure I don't want to contradict them--but
they have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like
their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.'

'Really!' said Miss Dartle. 'Well, I don't know, now, when I have been
better pleased than to hear that. It's so consoling! It's such a delight
to know that, when they suffer, they don't feel! Sometimes I have been
quite uneasy for that sort of people; but now I shall just dismiss the
idea of them, altogether. Live and learn. I had my doubts, I confess,
but now they're cleared up. I didn't know, and now I do know, and that
shows the advantage of asking--don't it?'

I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to draw
Miss Dartle out; and I expected him to say as much when she was gone,
and we two were sitting before the fire. But he merely asked me what I
thought of her.

'She is very clever, is she not?' I asked.

'Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone,' said Steerforth, and
sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own face and figure these years
past. She has worn herself away by constant sharpening. She is all
edge.'

'What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip!' I said.

Steerforth's face fell, and he paused a moment.

'Why, the fact is,' he returned, 'I did that.'

'By an unfortunate accident!'

'No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I threw a hammer at
her. A promising young angel I must have been!' I was deeply sorry to
have touched on such a painful theme, but that was useless now.

'She has borne the mark ever since, as you see,' said Steerforth; 'and
she'll bear it to her grave, if she ever rests in one--though I can
hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere. She was the motherless child
of a sort of cousin of my father's. He died one day. My mother, who was
then a widow, brought her here to be company to her. She has a couple of
thousand pounds of her own, and saves the interest of it every year, to
add to the principal. There's the history of Miss Rosa Dartle for you.'

'And I have no doubt she loves you like a brother?' said I.

'Humph!' retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. 'Some brothers are
not loved over much; and some love--but help yourself, Copperfield!
We'll drink the daisies of the field, in compliment to you; and the
lilies of the valley that toil not, neither do they spin, in compliment
to me--the more shame for me!' A moody smile that had overspread his
features cleared off as he said this merrily, and he was his own frank,
winning self again.

I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful interest when we
went in to tea. It was not long before I observed that it was the most
susceptible part of her face, and that, when she turned pale, that mark
altered first, and became a dull, lead-coloured streak, lengthening out
to its full extent, like a mark in invisible ink brought to the fire.
There was a little altercation between her and Steerforth about a cast
of the dice at back gammon--when I thought her, for one moment, in a
storm of rage; and then I saw it start forth like the old writing on the
wall.

It was no matter of wonder to me to find Mrs. Steerforth devoted to her
son. She seemed to be able to speak or think about nothing else. She
showed me his picture as an infant, in a locket, with some of his
baby-hair in it; she showed me his picture as he had been when I first
knew him; and she wore at her breast his picture as he was now. All the
letters he had ever written to her, she kept in a cabinet near her own
chair by the fire; and she would have read me some of them, and I should
have been very glad to hear them too, if he had not interposed, and
coaxed her out of the design.

'It was at Mr. Creakle's, my son tells me, that you first became
acquainted,' said Mrs. Steerforth, as she and I were talking at one
table, while they played backgammon at another. 'Indeed, I recollect his
speaking, at that time, of a pupil younger than himself who had taken
his fancy there; but your name, as you may suppose, has not lived in my
memory.'

'He was very generous and noble to me in those days, I assure you,
ma'am,' said I, 'and I stood in need of such a friend. I should have
been quite crushed without him.'

'He is always generous and noble,' said Mrs. Steerforth, proudly.

I subscribed to this with all my heart, God knows. She knew I did; for
the stateliness of her manner already abated towards me, except when she
spoke in praise of him, and then her air was always lofty.

'It was not a fit school generally for my son,' said she; 'far from it;
but there were particular circumstances to be considered at the time, of
more importance even than that selection. My son's high spirit made
it desirable that he should be placed with some man who felt its
superiority, and would be content to bow himself before it; and we found
such a man there.'

I knew that, knowing the fellow. And yet I did not despise him the more
for it, but thought it a redeeming quality in him if he could be allowed
any grace for not resisting one so irresistible as Steerforth.

'My son's great capacity was tempted on, there, by a feeling of
voluntary emulation and conscious pride,' the fond lady went on to say.
'He would have risen against all constraint; but he found himself the
monarch of the place, and he haughtily determined to be worthy of his
station. It was like himself.'

I echoed, with all my heart and soul, that it was like himself.

'So my son took, of his own will, and on no compulsion, to the course
in which he can always, when it is his pleasure, outstrip every
competitor,' she pursued. 'My son informs me, Mr. Copperfield, that
you were quite devoted to him, and that when you met yesterday you made
yourself known to him with tears of joy. I should be an affected woman
if I made any pretence of being surprised by my son's inspiring such
emotions; but I cannot be indifferent to anyone who is so sensible of
his merit, and I am very glad to see you here, and can assure you that
he feels an unusual friendship for you, and that you may rely on his
protection.'

Miss Dartle played backgammon as eagerly as she did everything else.
If I had seen her, first, at the board, I should have fancied that her
figure had got thin, and her eyes had got large, over that pursuit, and
no other in the world. But I am very much mistaken if she missed a
word of this, or lost a look of mine as I received it with the utmost
pleasure, and honoured by Mrs. Steerforth's confidence, felt older than
I had done since I left Canterbury.

When the evening was pretty far spent, and a tray of glasses and
decanters came in, Steerforth promised, over the fire, that he would
seriously think of going down into the country with me. There was no
hurry, he said; a week hence would do; and his mother hospitably said
the same. While we were talking, he more than once called me Daisy;
which brought Miss Dartle out again.

'But really, Mr. Copperfield,' she asked, 'is it a nickname? And
why does he give it you? Is it--eh?--because he thinks you young and
innocent? I am so stupid in these things.'

I coloured in replying that I believed it was.

'Oh!' said Miss Dartle. 'Now I am glad to know that! I ask for
information, and I am glad to know it. He thinks you young and innocent;
and so you are his friend. Well, that's quite delightful!'

She went to bed soon after this, and Mrs. Steerforth retired too.
Steerforth and I, after lingering for half-an-hour over the fire,
talking about Traddles and all the rest of them at old Salem House, went
upstairs together. Steerforth's room was next to mine, and I went in to
look at it. It was a picture of comfort, full of easy-chairs, cushions
and footstools, worked by his mother's hand, and with no sort of thing
omitted that could help to render it complete. Finally, her handsome
features looked down on her darling from a portrait on the wall, as if
it were even something to her that her likeness should watch him while
he slept.

I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this time, and the
curtains drawn before the windows and round the bed, giving it a very
snug appearance. I sat down in a great chair upon the hearth to meditate
on my happiness; and had enjoyed the contemplation of it for some time,
when I found a likeness of Miss Dartle looking eagerly at me from above
the chimney-piece.

It was a startling likeness, and necessarily had a startling look. The
painter hadn't made the scar, but I made it; and there it was, coming
and going; now confined to the upper lip as I had seen it at dinner, and
now showing the whole extent of the wound inflicted by the hammer, as I
had seen it when she was passionate.

I wondered peevishly why they couldn't put her anywhere else instead
of quartering her on me. To get rid of her, I undressed quickly,
extinguished my light, and went to bed. But, as I fell asleep, I could
not forget that she was still there looking, 'Is it really, though?
I want to know'; and when I awoke in the night, I found that I was
uneasily asking all sorts of people in my dreams whether it really was
or not--without knowing what I meant.

 Unsure of what he wishes to do in the world, David is encouraged by Aunt Betsey to visit Peggotty so that he may have "a little change" and "thereby form a cooler judgment." His aunt gives him a "handsome purse of money, and a portmanteau" , and he sets out. David first stops at Canterbury to say goodbye to Agnes and Mr. Wickfield. While he is there, Agnes tells David that she is worried about her father's condition. David says that he has become concerned over Mr. Wickfield's increased drinking, that whenever Mr. Wickfield "is least like himself," he is most certain to be wanted on "some business" by Uriah Heep. Later at Dr. Strong's, David observes another domestic problem. A letter has arrived from Jack Maldon in which he states that he is ill and wants to return. Mrs. Markleham succeeds in getting Dr. Strong to let Maldon come over while Annie "never once spoke or lifted up her eyes." David senses trouble ahead. Arriving in London, David registers at a hotel and is given a small room over a stable. After a dinner during which he tries to give an impression of worldly maturity, he attends a performance of Julius Caesar at Covent Garden. When he returns to the hotel, he is overjoyed to run into James Steerforth, now an Oxford student; he is on his way home to visit his mother. Steerforth admonishes one of the hotel's employees for giving David such a poor room, and David is immediately given a much better room. The next morning at breakfast, Steerforth invites David to come home with him and meet his mother. David accepts the invitation, and at dusk they arrive by stagecoach at an old brick house in Highgate, a suburb of London. Steerforth's mother is elderly and rather formal. Her companion is Rosa Dartle, a thin, black-haired lady of about thirty. Miss Dartle has a scar on her lip, which Steerforth tells David he caused. "I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I threw a hammer at her." David invites Steerforth to go with him to visit the Peggotty family, and Steerforth is interested but condescending. He expresses pleasure at the chance "to see that sort of people"; he tells Miss Dartle that "there's a pretty wide separation between them and us . . . They are wonderfully virtuous, I dare say . . . But they have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded."

