Many years ago, when people could be put in prison for debt, a poor
gentleman, who was unfortunate enough to lose all his money, was brought
to the Marshalsea prison. As there seemed no prospect of being able to
pay his debts, his wife and their two little children came to live there
with him. The elder child was a boy of three; the younger a little girl
of two years old, and not long afterwards another little girl was born.
The three children played in the courtyard, and were happy, on the
whole, for they were too young to remember a happier state of things.
But the youngest child, who had never been outside the prison walls, was
a thoughtful little creature, and wondered what the outside world could
be like. Her great friend, the turnkey, who was also her godfather,
became very fond of her, and as soon as she could walk and talk, he
bought a little arm-chair and stood it by his fire at the lodge, and
coaxed her with cheap toys to come and sit with him.
One day, she was sitting in the lodge gazing wistfully up at the sky
through the barred window. The turnkey, after watching her some time,
said:--
"Thinking of the fields, ain't you?"
"Where are they?" she asked.
"Why, they're--over there, my dear," said the turnkey, waving his key
vaguely, "just about there."
"Does anybody open them and shut them? Are they locked?"
"Well," said the turnkey, discomfited, "not in general."
"Are they pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, because he wished it.
"Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, and
there's--" here he hesitated, not knowing the names of many
flowers--"there's dandelions, and all manner of games."
"Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?"
"Prime," said the turnkey.
"Was father ever there?"
"Hem!" coughed the turnkey. "O yes, he was there, sometimes."
"Is he sorry not to be there now?"
"N--not particular," said the turnkey.
"Nor any of the people?" she asked, glancing at the listless crowd
within. "O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?"
At this point, Bob gave in and changed the subject. But after this chat,
the turnkey and little Amy would go out on his free Sunday afternoons to
some meadows or green lanes, and she would pick grass and flowers to
bring home, while he smoked his pipe.
When Amy was only eight years old, her mother died, and the poor father
was more helpless and broken-down than ever, and as Fanny was a careless
child, and Edward idle, the little one, who had the bravest and truest
heart, was inspired by her love and unselfishness to be the little
mother of the forlorn family, and struggled to get some little education
for herself and her brother and sister. She went as often as she could
to an evening school outside, and managed to get her brother and sister
sent to a day-school at intervals, during three or four years. At
thirteen, she could read and keep accounts. Once, amongst the debtors, a
dancing-master came in, and as Fanny had a great desire to learn
dancing, little Amy went timidly to the new prisoner, and said,
"If you please, I was born here, sir."
"Oh! You are the young lady, are you?" said he.
"Yes, sir."
"And what can I do for you?"
"Nothing for me, sir, thank you; but if, while you stay here, you could
be so kind as to teach my sister cheap."
"My child, I'll teach her for nothing," said the dancing-master.
Fanny was a very apt pupil, and the good-natured dancing-master went on
giving her lessons even after his release, and Amy was so emboldened
with the success of her attempt that, when a milliner came in, she went
to her on her own behalf, and begged her to teach her.
"I am afraid you are so weak, you see," the milliner objected.
"I don't think I am weak, ma'am."
"And you are so very, very little, you see," the milliner still
objected.
[Illustration: THE BLIND TOY MAKER.]
[Illustration: LITTLE DORRIT AND MAGGIE.
"SHE HAS NEVER GROWN OLDER SINCE."]
"Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed," returned the child, and
began to sob, so that the milliner was touched, and took her in hand and
made her a clever workwoman.
But the father could not bear the idea that his children should work for
their living, so they had to keep it all secret. Fanny became a dancer,
and lived with a poor old uncle, who played the clarionet at the small
theatre where Fanny was engaged. Amy, or little Dorrit as she was
generally called, her father's name being Dorrit, earned small sums by
going out to do needlework. She got Edward into a great many situations,
but he was an idle, careless fellow, and always came back to be a burden
and care to his poor little sister. At last she saved up enough to send
him out to Canada.
"God bless you, dear Tip" (his name had been shortened to Tip), "don't
be too proud to come and see us when you have made your fortune," she
said.
But Tip only went as far as Liverpool, and appeared once more before his
poor little second mother, in rags, and with no shoes.
In the end, after another trial, Tip returned telling Amy, that this
time he was "one of the regulars."
"Oh! Don't say you are a prisoner, Tip. Don't, don't!"
But he was--and Amy nearly broke her heart. So with all these cares and
worries struggling bravely on, little Dorrit passed the first twenty-two
years of her life. Then the son of a lady, Mrs. Clennem, to whose house
Amy went to do needlework, was interested in the pale, patient little
creature, and learning her history resolved to do his best to try and
get her father released, and to help them all.
One day when he was walking home with little Dorrit a voice was heard
calling, "Little Mother, Little Mother," and a strange figure came
bouncing up to them and fell down, scattering her basketful of potatoes
on the ground. "Oh Maggie," said Little Dorrit, "what a clumsy child you
are!"
She was about eight and twenty, with large bones, large features, large
hands and feet, large eyes and no hair. Little Dorrit told Mr. Clennem
that Maggie was the grand-daughter of her old nurse, and that her
grandmother had been very unkind to her and beat her. "When Maggie was
ten years old, she had a fever, and she has never grown older since."
"Ten years old," said Maggie. "But what a nice hospital! So comfortable
wasn't it? Such a Ev'nly place! Such beds there is there! Such
lemonades! Such oranges! Such delicious broth and wine! Such chicking!
Oh, AIN'T it a delightful place to stop at!"
"Then when she came out, her grandmother did not know what to do with
her, and was very unkind. But after some time, Maggie tried to improve,
and was very attentive and industrious, and now she can earn her own
living entirely, sir!"
Little Dorrit did not say who had taken pains to teach and encourage the
poor half-witted creature, but Mr. Clennem guessed from the name Little
Mother, and the fondness of the poor creature for Amy.
Thanks to Mr. Clennem, a great change took place in the fortunes of the
family, and not long after this wretched night, it was discovered that
Mr. Dorrit was owner of a large property, and they became very rich.
When, in his turn, Mr. Clennem became a prisoner in the Marshalsea
little Dorrit came to comfort and console him, and after many changes of
fortune, she became his wife, and they lived happy ever after.