I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when my school-daysdrew to an end, and the time came for my leaving Doctor Strong's. I hadbeen very happy there, I had a great attachment for the Doctor, and Iwas eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these reasonsI was sorry to go; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, Iwas glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, ofthe importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of thewonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal, and thewonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society, lured me away.So powerful were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, thatI seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left schoolwithout natural regret. The separation has not made the impression onme, that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I feltabout it, and what its circumstances were; but it is not momentous in myrecollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know that myjuvenile experiences went for little or nothing then; and that life wasmore 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 whichI should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to find asatisfactory answer to her often-repeated question, 'What I would liketo be?' But I had no particular liking, that I could discover, foranything. If I could have been inspired with a knowledge of the scienceof navigation, taken the command of a fast-sailing expedition, and goneround the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery, I think I mighthave considered myself completely suited. But, in the absence of anysuch miraculous provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuitthat 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 meditativeand sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once; and on thatoccasion (I don't know what put it in his head), he suddenly proposedthat I should be 'a Brazier'. My aunt received this proposal so veryungraciously, that he never ventured on a second; but ever afterwardsconfined himself to looking watchfully at her for her suggestions, andrattling his money.

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

'I will, aunt.'

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

'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. Butit's natural and rational that you should like it. And I am verywell persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will always be natural andrational.'

'I hope so, aunt.'

'Your sister, Betsey Trotwood,' said my aunt, 'would have been asnatural 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 vainof her boy by this time, that her soft little head would have beencompletely turned, if there was anything of it left to turn.' (My auntalways excused any weakness of her own in my behalf, by transferring itin this way to my poor mother.) 'Bless me, Trotwood, how you do remindme 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'sas 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 meanphysically, but morally; you are very well physically--is, a firmfellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolution,'said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her hand. 'Withdetermination. With character, Trot--with strength of character that isnot 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 mightboth 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 yourtrip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr. Dick's going with you; but, onsecond thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me.'

Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed; until the honourand dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful woman in theworld, 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 getthat done immediately--it really must be done immediately! And then itwill 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 fittedout with a handsome purse of money, and a portmanteau, and tenderlydismissed upon my expedition. At parting, my aunt gave me some goodadvice, and a good many kisses; and said that as her object was that Ishould look about me, and should think a little, she would recommend meto stay a few days in London, if I liked it, either on my way down intoSuffolk, or in coming back. In a word, I was at liberty to do what Iwould, for three weeks or a month; and no other conditions were imposedupon 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), andalso of the good Doctor. Agnes was very glad to see me, and told me thatthe 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 towant my right hand, when I miss you. Though that's not saying much; forthere'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 sosweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you are alwaysright.'

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

'Come! It's not fair to abuse my confidence,' I answered, reddening atthe recollection of my blue enslaver. 'But I shall confide in you, justthe same, Agnes. I can never grow out of that. Whenever I fall intotrouble, or fall in love, I shall always tell you, if you'll letme--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 Isuppose 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 wouldhave told me. Or at least'--for I saw a faint blush in her face, 'youwould have let me find it out for myself. But there is no one that Iknow of, who deserves to love you, Agnes. Someone of a nobler character,and more worthy altogether than anyone I have ever seen here, must riseup, before I give my consent. In the time to come, I shall have a waryeye on all admirers; and shall exact a great deal from the successfulone, 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 asmere children. But Agnes, now suddenly lifting up her eyes to mine, andspeaking in a different manner, said:

'Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and that I may nothave another opportunity of asking for a long time, perhaps--somethingI would ask, I think, of no one else. Have you observed any gradualalteration in Papa?'

I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too. I musthave shown as much, now, in my face; for her eyes were in a moment castdown, 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 uponhim 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. Ihave remarked that at those times, and when he is least like himself, heis 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 understoodit, or of having shown his condition in spite of himself, seems to makehim so uneasy, that next day he is worse, and next day worse, and so hebecomes jaded and haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, butin this state I saw him, only the other evening, lay down his head uponhis desk, and shed tears like a child.'

Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking, and ina moment she had met her father at the door of the room, and was hangingon his shoulder. The expression of her face, as they both looked towardsme, 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, evenin my inmost thoughts, and to let no harsh construction find any placeagainst him; she was, at once, so proud of him and devoted to him, yetso compassionate and sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too; thatnothing she could have said would have expressed more to me, or moved memore.

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, andher mother. The Doctor, who made as much of my going away as if I weregoing to China, received me as an honoured guest; and called for a logof wood to be thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of his oldpupil 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 aquieter life.'

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

'But now I mean to do it,' returned the Doctor. 'My first master willsucceed me--I am in earnest at last--so you'll soon have to arrange ourcontracts, 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 andtimidity, that his attention became fixed upon her, as if something weresuggested to his thoughts.

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

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

'Indeed!' 'Poor dear Jack!' said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head. 'Thattrying climate!--like living, they tell me, on a sand-heap, underneatha burning-glass! He looked strong, but he wasn't. My dear Doctor, it washis spirit, not his constitution, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie,my dear, I am sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousinnever was strong--not what can be called ROBUST, you know,' said Mrs.Markleham, with emphasis, and looking round upon us generally, '--fromthe time when my daughter and himself were children together, andwalking 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?' askedMr. 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 dreadfulstrokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues, and everykind of thing you can mention. As to his liver,' said the Old Soldierresignedly, 'that, of course, he gave up altogether, when he first wentout!'

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

'Say? My dear sir,' returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head and herfan, '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 begthat 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 theheels 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, ratherthan say anything calculated to overturn the Doctor's plans.'

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

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

'Oh! Responsibility!' said the Old Soldier. 'Everything was done forthe best, my dear Mr. Wickfield; everything was done for the kindest andbest, we know. But if the dear fellow can't live there, he can't livethere. And if he can't live there, he'll die there, sooner than he'lloverturn the Doctor's plans. I know him,' said the Old Soldier, fanningherself, 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 tomy plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some otherplans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill health, he mustnot be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to make some moresuitable and fortunate provision for him in this country.'

Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech--which, I neednot say, she had not at all expected or led up to--that she could onlytell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several times through thatoperation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his handwith it. After which she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not beingmore demonstrative when such kindnesses were showered, for her sake, onher old playfellow; and entertained us with some particulars concerningother deserving members of her family, whom it was desirable to set ontheir deserving legs.

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

'Why, here,' said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-pieceabove the Doctor's head, 'the dear fellow says to the Doctorhimself--where is it? Oh!--"I am sorry to inform you that my health issuffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessityof returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration." That'spretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie'sletter 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 mostridiculous persons in the world,' returned her mother, 'and perhaps themost unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should haveheard 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 amsurprised. 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 dearestAnnie"--and so forth--it's not there. "The amiable old Proctor"--who'she? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Maldon writes, and howstupid I am! "Doctor," of course. Ah! amiable indeed!' Here she leftoff, to kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was lookingat us in a state of placid satisfaction. 'Now I have found it. "You maynot be surprised to hear, Annie,"--no, to be sure, knowing that he neverwas really strong; what did I say just now?--"that I have undergoneso much in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at allhazards; on sick leave, if I can; on total resignation, if that isnot to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, isinsupportable." And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures,'said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and refoldingthe letter, 'it would be insupportable to me to think of.'

Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as iffor his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely silent, withhis 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 theDoctor, or his wife, or both.

The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness andexpression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together, and played duetstogether, and we had quite a little concert. But I remarked two things:first, that though Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quiteherself, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which separatedthem wholly from each other; secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemedto dislike the intimacy between her and Agnes, and to watch it withuneasiness. And now, I must confess, the recollection of what I had seenon that night when Mr. Maldon went away, first began to return upon mewith a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent beautyof her face was not as innocent to me as it had been; I mistrusted thenatural grace and charm of her manner; and when I looked at Agnes by herside, and thought how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose withinme 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 closedin an incident which I well remember. They were taking leave of eachother, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr.Wickfield stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnesquickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening time had beencancelled, and I were still standing in the doorway on the night of thedeparture, the expression of that night in the face of Mrs. Strong, asit confronted his.

I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible Ifound it, when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from thislook, and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It hauntedme when I got home. I seemed to have left the Doctor's roof with a darkcloud lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his grey head, wasmingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherousto him, and with resentment against those who injured him. The impendingshadow of a great affliction, and a great disgrace that had no distinctform in it yet, fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I hadworked and played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasurein thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees, whichremained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trimsmooth grass-plot, and the stone urns, and the Doctor's walk, and thecongenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was asif 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 Agneshad filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind sufficiently.I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might sleep again--perhapsoften--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 suchof 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 showof 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 halfa mind to nod to my old enemy the butcher, and throw him five shillingsto drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stoodscraping the great block in the shop, and moreover, his appearance wasso 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 extremelygruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience; butI 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 toLondon. 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 ofyear, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.

'I don't know,' I said, pretending to be undecided, 'whether I shalltake 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 theinstitutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them; so Ishook my head, as much as to say, 'I believe you!'

'And the Punches,' said William. 'There's cattle! A Suffolk Punch, whenhe's a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed anySuffolk 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 flatbrim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the wayup outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked overthe coachman's shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickledthe back of my head; and as I looked at him, he leered at the leaderswith 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 orsethat I ain't bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is somemen's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me--lodging, wife, andchildren--reading, writing, and Arithmetic--snuff, tobacker, and sleep.'

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

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

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

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

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on smalloccasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly notstopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterburycoach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spokefrom the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I feltcompletely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up therebehind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with plenty ofmoney in my pocket; and to look out for the places where I had slept onmy weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in everyconspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the tramperswhom 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 shirtagain. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and Icaught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster livedwho had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for theplace where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for mymoney. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed theveritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavyhand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get downand 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 ofestablishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into thecoffee-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 aweof me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinionson any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offeringadvice to my inexperience.

'Well now,' said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, 'what would youlike 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 fora fowl.

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

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

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

I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet andpotatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if therewere any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire--which I knew therewere 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 muchsurprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by thefire. 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 favourableopportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from thestale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of thisopinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed himbehind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, verybusy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemistand druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, Ithought it flat; and it certainly had more English crumbs in it, thanwere to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, butI was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.

Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer thatpoisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process), Iresolved 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 thenew Pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, andwalking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the sterntaskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightfuleffect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, theinfluence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company, thesmooth stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were sodazzling, and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when Icame out into the rainy street, at twelve o'clock at night, I felt as ifI had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic lifefor 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 littlewhile, as if I really were a stranger upon earth: but the unceremoniouspushing and hustling that I received, soon recalled me to myself, andput me in the road back to the hotel; whither I went, revolving theglorious 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 thecoffee-room fire.

I was so filled with the play, and with the past--for it was, in amanner, like a shining transparency, through which I saw my earlierlife moving along--that I don't know when the figure of a handsomewell-formed young man dressed with a tasteful easy negligence which Ihave reason to remember very well, became a real presence to me. ButI recollect being conscious of his company without having noticed hiscoming 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 hittingthem, and putting them through all kinds of contortions in his smallpantry. 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. Hedid not know me, but I knew him in a moment.

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

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

He looked at me--just as he used to look, sometimes--but I saw norecognition 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 veryshame, and the fear that it might displease him, I could have held himround the neck and cried.

'I never, never, never was so glad! My dear Steerforth, I am sooverjoyed 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 tokeep 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 theshoulder.

'I came here by the Canterbury coach, today. I have been adopted byan aunt down in that part of the country, and have just finished myeducation 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 tomy mother's. You're a devilish amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Justwhat 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 oftown; and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house tediousenough, I remained here tonight instead of going on. I have not been intown half-a-dozen hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling awayat the play.'

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

Steerforth laughed heartily.

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

This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to ourrecognition, 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,' saidSteerforth.

'Well, sir,' said the waiter, with an apologetic air. 'Mr. Copperfieldis 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, stillapologetically, 'as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can giveMr. 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, verymuch amused at my having been put into forty-four, laughed again, andclapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with himnext morning at ten o'clock--an invitation I was only too proud andhappy to accept. It being now pretty late, we took our candles and wentupstairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door, andwhere I found my new room a great improvement on my old one, it notbeing at all musty, and having an immense four-post bedstead in it,which was quite a little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough forsix, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancientRome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches,rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and thegods.