shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. My hat was crushed and
bent. My shirt and trousers were stained with peat, dew, grass, and the
Kentish soil on which I had slept. My hair had known no comb or brush
since I left London. From head to foot I was powdered with chalk as if
I had come out of a lime kiln.
There came out of the house a lady with a handkerchief tied over her
cap, a pair of gardening gloves on her hands, and carrying a great
knife. I knew her, immediately, to be my Aunt Betsy.
“Go away!” said Miss Betsy, shaking her head. “Go along! No boys here!”
“If you please, ma’am,” I began. She started and looked up.
“If you please, aunt.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Miss Betsy in a tone of amazement I have never heard
approached.
“If you please, aunt, I am your nephew.”
“Oh, Lord!” said my aunt, and sat flat down on the garden path.
“I am David Copperfield. I have been very unhappy since my mother died.
I was put to work that was not fit for me. It made me run away to you.
I was robbed when I set out and have walked all the way and have never
slept in a bed since I began the journey.”
My aunt got up in a great hurry, collared me and took me into the
parlor. Her first proceeding was to unlock a tall cupboard, bring forth
several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my mouth. I
think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure I tasted
aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. Then she put me on
the sofa, with a shawl under my head, and, sitting by my side, repeated
at intervals, “Mercy on us!”
Then I was given a bath, which was a great comfort. For I began to be
sensitive of pains from lying out in the fields. When I had bathed they
enrobed me in a shirt and a pair of trousers too big for me, and tied
me up in two or three big shawls. What sort of a bundle I looked like I
do not know. Feeling very drowsy, I lay down on the sofa and was soon
fast asleep.
Then I was put to bed in a pleasant room at the top of the house. It
was overlooking the sea, on which the moon was shining. After I had
said my prayers and the candle had burned out I sat looking at the
moonlight on the water. Then I turned to the white curtained bed. I
remember how I thought of all the solitary places under the night sky
where I had slept, and I prayed that I might never be houseless any
more, and never might forget the houseless.
JOE THE FAT BOY
VII
JOE THE FAT BOY
WHEN we think of famous people, we take for granted that they did
something remarkable. But this is not always true. One of the most
famous characters of fiction is the Fat Boy in _The Pickwick
Papers_. Everybody remembers him. But what did he do to earn
his reputation? He did nothing at all but go to sleep under all
circumstances. It was his gift.
Joe was the footman, or rather the footboy, of Mr. Wardle, a
good-natured gentleman who lived at Dingley Dell. Now four other
good-natured gentlemen had started out from London in search of
adventures. Their names were Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Tupman,
and Mr. Winkle. They didn’t know where they were going, but that didn’t
matter. They intended to have a good time and to see the country. When
they returned they were sure that they would have something to tell
about. So when they came to the pleasant city of Rochester, they were
delighted to find that there was to be a great review of the troops.
The soldiers were to take part in a mimic battle. Everything was to be
like real war, except that nobody was to be hurt. This was just what
Mr. Pickwick and his friends wanted to see.
It was all very fine so long as the soldiers were firing in other
directions. But it was different when Mr. Pickwick saw the muskets
pointed in their direction. This was getting decidedly dangerous.
“What are they doing now?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“I rather think,” said Mr. Winkle, “that they are going to fire.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“I--I--really think they are,” urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.
“Impossible,” replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the words
when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets at Mr.
Pickwick and his friends, and there burst forth the most tremendous
discharge. Mr. Pickwick assured his friends that there was no danger.
“But suppose,” said Mr. Winkle, “that some of the men should have ball
cartridges by mistake. I heard something whistle in the air just now.”
“We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn’t we?” said Mr.
Snodgrass.
“No, it’s over now,” said Mr. Pickwick.
But it wasn’t over. A minute after, the order was given to charge with
fixed bayonets, and Mr. Pickwick and his friends saw the six regiments
charging across the field to the very spot where they were standing.
“Get out of the way!” cried the officers.
“Where are we to go to?” screamed Mr. Pickwick.
There was nothing for Mr. Pickwick and his friends to do but to get
out of the way as fast as they could. There was a gentle wind blowing,
and it carried Mr. Pickwick’s hat across the field. He ran after it
as fast as he could, till it went under the wheels of a carriage from
which the horses had been taken out. In the carriage was a stout old
gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top
boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, and an aunt. At the
back of the carriage was a huge hamper with cold chicken, ham, tongue,
and all the materials for a picnic, and on the box sat a very fat and
very red-faced boy, sound asleep.
The stout gentleman in the blue coat was Mr. Wardle, who instantly
became a warm friend of Mr. Pickwick, and invited him to get into the
carriage and have something to eat.
“Come along, sir, pray come up. Joe! That boy has gone to sleep again.
Joe, let down the steps.” The fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let
down the steps, and held the carriage door invitingly open.
“Room for you all, gentlemen,” said the stout man. “Joe, make room for
one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, sir, come along.” And he pulled
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass in by main force.
When they were all in the carriage, Mr. Wardle called to Joe, who had
again gone to sleep, to prepare for the lunch.
“Now Joe, knives and forks.” The knives and forks were handed to the
ladies and gentlemen inside.
“Plates, Joe, plates!” But Joe had dropped to sleep again. “Now, Joe,
the fowls. Come hand in the eatables!”
There was something in the last words that roused Joe to the greatest
activity, for he was always ready to eat.
“That’s right--look sharp. Now the tongue--now the pigeon pie. Take
care of the veal and ham--mind the lobsters--take the salad out of
the cloth--give me the dressing.” The various dishes were placed in
everybody’s hands and on everybody’s knees.
“Now, ain’t this capital?” inquired Mr. Wardle.
“Capital!” said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.
Everybody was eating and talking at the same time, and they felt that
they had always known each other. All except Joe, who preferred a nap
to conversation.
“Very extraordinary boy, that,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Does he always
sleep that way?”
“Sleep!” said the old gentleman, “he’s always asleep. Goes on errands
fast asleep, and snores as he waits at the table.”
“How very odd,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Ah! odd indeed,” returned the old gentleman; “I’m proud of that
boy--wouldn’t part with him on any account--he’s a natural curiosity!
Here, Joe--Joe--take these things away, and open another bottle--d’ye
hear?”
The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie
he had been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and
slowly obeyed his master’s orders--gloating languidly over the remains
of the feast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the
hamper. The fresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the
hamper was made fast in its old place--the fat boy once more mounted
the box--the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted--and the
evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and
banging of guns, and starting of ladies--and then a mine was sprung,
to the gratification of everybody--and when the mine had gone off, the
military and the company followed its example, and went off too.
“Now, mind,” said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr.
Pickwick at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on
at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings--“we shall see
you all to-morrow.”
“Most certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
“You have got the address?”
“Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,” said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his
pocket-book.
“That’s it,” said the old gentleman. “I don’t let you off, mind, under
a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If
you’ve come down for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you
plenty of it. Joe--he’s gone to sleep again--Joe, help Tom put in the
horses.”
The horses were put in--the driver mounted--the fat boy clambered up by
his side--farewells were exchanged--and the carriage rattled off. As
the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting
sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon
the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he
slumbered again.
OLIVER TWIST
VIII
OLIVER TWIST
OLIVER TWIST was born in a poorhouse, where his mother died. The
superintendent, Mr. Bumble, was a detestable man, who did all that he
could to make the paupers in his institution even more unhappy than
they were. He fed the boys on very thin gruel and gave them very little
of that. One day when he was particularly hungry, Oliver said:
“Please, sir, I want some more.”
Every one was horrified, and poor Oliver was beaten and shut up in a
little room where he could meditate on his sin. Soon after, he was
given into the hands of Mr. Sowerberry, who was as cruel as Mr. Bumble
himself. The upshot of it was that Oliver put a crust of bread, a shirt
and two pairs of stockings in a bundle, and ran away. Of course, there
was only one place to run away to, and that was London.
Oliver had been six days on the London road when he limped into the
little town of Barnet. There he met a boy of his own age, who was the
queerest-looking creature he had ever seen. His name was Jack Dawkins,
but he was known by all the people who knew him as the Artful Dodger.
He was a snub-nosed boy with a dirty face. His hat was on one side of
his head and was always about to fall off. He wore a ragged coat which
was too large for him, and had turned the coat-sleeves back half-way up
his arms.
[Illustration:
_Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_
OLIVER’S FIRST MEETING WITH THE ARTFUL DODGER]
“Hullo, what’s the row?” said the Artful Dodger.
“I am very hungry and tired. I have walked a long way. I have been
walking seven days.”
“Walking for sivin days! Come, you want grub, and you shall have it.”
He took Oliver into a little shop and bought some ham and bread, which
was quietly devoured.
“Going to London?” said the strange boy.
“Yes.”
“Got any lodgings?”
“No.”
“Money?”
“No.”
The strange boy whistled; and put his hands into his pockets, as far as
the big coat-sleeves would let them go.
“Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver.
“Yes, I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want
some place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I
left the country.”
“Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,” said the boy. “I’ve got to
be in London to-night; and I know a ’spectable old genelman as lives
there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the
change; that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don’t he
know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!”
So Oliver Twist went with the Artful Dodger through the narrowest and
crookedest streets in London till he came to the house of old Fagin,
who kept a school for pickpockets. Every day the boys would be sent out
on the streets and would come home at night with pocket-handkerchiefs
and purses which they had snatched from people in the crowds.
Five or six boys were in the room, and Fagin was cooking sausages in a
frying-pan.
“This is him, Fagin,” said the Artful Dodger; “my friend Oliver Twist.”
Fagin grinned, and shook hands. “We are glad to see you, Oliver.
Dodger, take off the sausages and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver.
Ah, you’re a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear? We’ve
just looked ’em out, ready for the wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s
all.”
Oliver wondered very much why they had so many handkerchiefs. Fagin
employed him in picking out the marks in them, and that kept him busy
for several days. One day he went out with the Artful Dodger and his
friend Charley Bates. Dickens tells the story of their adventure:
The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up,
and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his
hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them: wondering where they
were going: and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in,
first.
The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter,
that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive
the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a
vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small
boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some
very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering
divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and
thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that
they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.
These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring
his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when
his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very
mysterious change of behavior on the part of the Dodger.
They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open
square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion
of terms, “The Green,” when the Dodger made a sudden stop and, laying
his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the
greatest caution and circumspection.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Oliver.
“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old cove at the
book-stall?”
“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see him.”
“He’ll do,” said the Dodger.
“A prime plant,” observed Master Charley Bates.
Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but
he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked
stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman
towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces
after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood
looking on in silent amazement.
The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a
powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green
coat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried
a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the
stall, and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his
elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied
himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his utter abstraction,
that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in
short, anything but the book itself; which he was reading straight
through; turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page,
beginning at the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with
the greatest interest and eagerness.
What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking
on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the
Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket and draw from
thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and
finally to behold them, both, running away around the corner at full
speed!
In an instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the watches,
and the jewels, rushed upon the boy’s mind. He stood, for a moment,
with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror, that he
felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he
took to his heels and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he
could lay his feet to the ground.
This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver
began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and
missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding
away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the
depredator; and, shouting “Stop thief!” with all his might made off
after him, book in hand.
But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the
hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public
attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the
very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and
saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they
issued forth with great promptitude and, shouting “Stop thief!” too,
joined in the pursuit like good citizens.
Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was
not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that
self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps
he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however,
it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old
gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a magic in the sound. The
tradesman leaves his counter, and the carman his wagon; the butcher
throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail;
the errand-boy his parcels; the schoolboy his marbles; the pavior
his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell,
helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, and screaming: knocking
down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and
astonishing the fowls: and streets, squares, and courts re-echo with
the sound.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices,
and the crowd accumulates at every turning. Away they fly, splashing
through the mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows,
out run the people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch
in the very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng,
swell the shout, and lend fresh vigor to the cry, “Stop thief! Stop
thief!”
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a passion _for hunting
something_ deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched
breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony
in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face;
strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow
on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing
strength with still louder shouts, and whoop and scream with joy. “Stop
thief!” Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!
Stopped at last. A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the
crowd eagerly gather round him: each newcomer, jostling and struggling
with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him a little
air!” “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here
he is, coming down the street.” “Make room there for the gentleman!”
“Is this the boy, sir!” “Yes.”
Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,
looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when
the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by
the foremost of the pursuers.
“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is.”
“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un.”
“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”
“_I_ did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow, stepping
forward; “and preciously I cut my knuckle agin his mouth. _I_
stopped him, sir.”
The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his
pains; but the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike,
looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself:
which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus
afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally
the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way
through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.
“Come, get up,” said the man, roughly.
“It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,” said
Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. “They are
here somewhere.”
“Oh no, they ain’t,” said the officer. He meant this to be ironical,
but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed
off down the first convenient court they came to. “Come, get up!”
“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman, compassionately.
“Oh no, I won’t hurt him,” replied the officer, tearing his jacket half
off his back, in proof thereof. “Come, I know you; it won’t do. Will
you stand upon your legs, you young devil?”
Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his
feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar,
at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s
side; and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little
ahead, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in
triumph; and on they went.
* * * * *
Fortunately this time things turned out for the best for Oliver. The
old gentleman, whose name was Brownlow, believed his story and took him
to his own home, where he treated him as if he were his own son. They
lived in a pleasant house on a quiet street, and Mrs. Brownlow was as
kind as her husband.
This was only one of the adventures of Oliver Twist. He always seemed
to be falling in with unusually bad people, and then being rescued by
unusually kind people, who lost no time in receiving him as one of
the family. The changes in his fortune were as sudden as those in the
_Arabian Nights_. But then everything came out right in the end.
THE JELLYBY CHILDREN
IX
THE JELLYBY CHILDREN
TO know the Jellyby children you must know their mother. Mrs. Jellyby
had a very kind heart and wanted to do good. Unfortunately the
people she wanted to do good to lived a long way off. This was very
inconvenient, as it was very difficult to get at them, especially
as she didn’t know their names or what they looked like. The people
she was particularly interested in lived in Borrioboola-Gha, on the
left bank of the Niger, in Africa. Mrs. Jellyby had to write a great
many letters to all sorts of people about the state of things in
Borrioboola-Gha, and this took up the time she might otherwise have
given to her children.
What Mrs. Jellyby would have done if she had lived in Africa, we do not
know. But in London she didn’t find much to interest her: everything
was too near. So the little Jellybys were left to grow up as best
they could. There was no one whose business it was to see that they
were properly fed or clothed or taught how to behave. Mrs. Jellyby
couldn’t look after them, because she was too busy making plans for
the Africans. And Mr. Jellyby couldn’t do it, for he had to listen to
Mrs. Jellyby and do errands for her. So nobody did it, and the little
Jellybys got on as best they could, which was not very well.
In _Bleak House_, Dickens makes Miss Summerson tell of her visit
to Mrs. Jellyby.
* * * * *
We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us, at Mrs. Jellyby’s; and
then he turned to me, and said that he took it for granted that I knew
who Mrs. Jellyby was.
“I really don’t, sir,” I returned.
“Indeed! Mrs. Jellyby is a lady of great strength of character. She
devotes herself entirely to the public.”
“And Mr. Jellyby, sir?”
“Ah! Mr. Jellyby,” said Mr. Kenge, “I do not know that I can describe
Mr. Jellyby better than by saying he is the husband of Mrs. Jellyby.”
We arrived at our destination and found a crowd of people, mostly
children, about the house at which we stopped, which had a tarnished
brass plate on the door, with the inscription, JELLYBY.
“Don’t be frightened!” said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the coach-window.
“One of the young Jellybys been and got his head through the area
railings!”
“Oh, poor child,” said I, “let me out, if you please!”
“Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always up to
something,” said Mr. Guppy.