No More Learning

' said Agnes and I, both together.

'Em'ly,' said he, 'arter you left her, ma'am--and I never heerd her
saying of her prayers at night, t'other side the canvas screen, when we
was settled in the Bush, but what I heerd your name--and arter she and
me lost sight of Mas'r Davy, that theer shining sundown--was that low,
at first, that, if she had know'd then what Mas'r Davy kep from us so
kind and thowtful, 'tis my opinion she'd have drooped away. But theer
was some poor folks aboard as had illness among 'em, and she took care
of them; and theer was the children in our company, and she took care of
them; and so she got to be busy, and to be doing good, and that helped
her. '

'When did she first hear of it? ' I asked.

'I kep it from her arter I heerd on 't,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'going
on nigh a year. We was living then in a solitary place, but among the
beautifullest trees, and with the roses a-covering our Beein to the
roof. Theer come along one day, when I was out a-working on the land, a
traveller from our own Norfolk or Suffolk in England (I doen't rightly
mind which), and of course we took him in, and giv him to eat and drink,
and made him welcome. We all do that, all the colony over. He'd got an
old newspaper with him, and some other account in print of the storm.
That's how she know'd it. When I came home at night, I found she know'd
it. '

He dropped his voice as he said these words, and the gravity I so well
remembered overspread his face.

'Did it change her much? ' we asked.

'Aye, for a good long time,' he said, shaking his head; 'if not to this
present hour. But I think the solitoode done her good. And she had a
deal to mind in the way of poultry and the like, and minded of it, and
come through. I wonder,' he said thoughtfully, 'if you could see my
Em'ly now, Mas'r Davy, whether you'd know her! '

'Is she so altered? ' I inquired.

'I doen't know. I see her ev'ry day, and doen't know; But, odd-times, I
have thowt so. A slight figure,' said Mr. Peggotty, looking at the fire,
'kiender worn; soft, sorrowful, blue eyes; a delicate face; a pritty
head, leaning a little down; a quiet voice and way--timid a'most. That's
Em'ly! '

We silently observed him as he sat, still looking at the fire.

'Some thinks,' he said, 'as her affection was ill-bestowed; some, as her
marriage was broken off by death. No one knows how 'tis. She might have
married well, a mort of times, "but, uncle," she says to me, "that's
gone for ever. " Cheerful along with me; retired when others is by;
fond of going any distance fur to teach a child, or fur to tend a sick
person, or fur to do some kindness tow'rds a young girl's wedding (and
she's done a many, but has never seen one); fondly loving of her uncle;
patient; liked by young and old; sowt out by all that has any trouble.
That's Em'ly! '

He drew his hand across his face, and with a half-suppressed sigh looked
up from the fire.

'Is Martha with you yet? ' I asked.

'Martha,' he replied, 'got married, Mas'r Davy, in the second year. A
young man, a farm-labourer, as come by us on his way to market with his
mas'r's drays--a journey of over five hundred mile, theer and back--made
offers fur to take her fur his wife (wives is very scarce theer), and
then to set up fur their two selves in the Bush. She spoke to me fur to
tell him her trew story. I did. They was married, and they live fower
hundred mile away from any voices but their own and the singing birds. '

'Mrs. Gummidge? ' I suggested.

It was a pleasant key to touch, for Mr. Peggotty suddenly burst into a
roar of laughter, and rubbed his hands up and down his legs, as he had
been accustomed to do when he enjoyed himself in the long-shipwrecked
boat.

'Would you believe it! ' he said. 'Why, someun even made offer fur to
marry her! If a ship's cook that was turning settler, Mas'r Davy, didn't
make offers fur to marry Missis Gummidge, I'm Gormed--and I can't say no
fairer than that! '

I never saw Agnes laugh so. This sudden ecstasy on the part of Mr.
Peggotty was so delightful to her, that she could not leave off
laughing; and the more she laughed the more she made me laugh, and the
greater Mr. Peggotty's ecstasy became, and the more he rubbed his legs.

'And what did Mrs. Gummidge say? ' I asked, when I was grave enough.

'If you'll believe me,' returned Mr. Peggotty, 'Missis Gummidge, 'stead
of saying "thank you, I'm much obleeged to you, I ain't a-going fur
to change my condition at my time of life," up'd with a bucket as was
standing by, and laid it over that theer ship's cook's head 'till he
sung out fur help, and I went in and reskied of him. '

Mr. Peggotty burst into a great roar of laughter, and Agnes and I both
kept him company.

'But I must say this, for the good creetur,' he resumed, wiping his
face, when we were quite exhausted; 'she has been all she said she'd
be to us, and more. She's the willingest, the trewest, the
honestest-helping woman, Mas'r Davy, as ever draw'd the breath of life.
I have never know'd her to be lone and lorn, for a single minute,
not even when the colony was all afore us, and we was new to it. And
thinking of the old 'un is a thing she never done, I do assure you,
since she left England! '

'Now, last, not least, Mr. Micawber,' said I. 'He has paid off every
obligation he incurred here--even to Traddles's bill, you remember my
dear Agnes--and therefore we may take it for granted that he is doing
well. But what is the latest news of him? '

Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his breast-pocket, and
produced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from which he took out, with much
care, a little odd-looking newspaper.

'You are to understan', Mas'r Davy,' said he, 'as we have left the
Bush now, being so well to do; and have gone right away round to Port
Middlebay Harbour, wheer theer's what we call a town. '

'Mr. Micawber was in the Bush near you? ' said I.

'Bless you, yes,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'and turned to with a will. I never
wish to meet a better gen'l'man for turning to with a will. I've seen
that theer bald head of his a perspiring in the sun, Mas'r Davy, till I
a'most thowt it would have melted away. And now he's a Magistrate. '

'A Magistrate, eh? ' said I.

Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the newspaper, where I
read aloud as follows, from the Port Middlebay Times:


'The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist and townsman,
WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Port Middlebay District Magistrate, came
off yesterday in the large room of the Hotel, which was crowded to
suffocation. It is estimated that not fewer than forty-seven persons
must have been accommodated with dinner at one time, exclusive of the
company in the passage and on the stairs. The beauty, fashion, and
exclusiveness of Port Middlebay, flocked to do honour to one so
deservedly esteemed, so highly talented, and so widely popular. Doctor
Mell (of Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) presided,
and on his right sat the distinguished guest. After the removal of the
cloth, and the singing of Non Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which
we were at no loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted
amateur, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR), the usual loyal and
patriotic toasts were severally given and rapturously received. Doctor
Mell, in a speech replete with feeling, then proposed "Our distinguished
Guest, the ornament of our town. May he never leave us but to better
himself, and may his success among us be such as to render his bettering
himself impossible! " The cheering with which the toast was received
defies description. Again and again it rose and fell, like the waves
of ocean. At length all was hushed, and WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE,
presented himself to return thanks. Far be it from us, in the present
comparatively imperfect state of the resources of our establishment,
to endeavour to follow our distinguished townsman through the
smoothly-flowing periods of his polished and highly-ornate address!
Suffice it to observe, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and that
those passages in which he more particularly traced his own successful
career to its source, and warned the younger portion of his auditory
from the shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which they were
unable to liquidate, brought a tear into the manliest eye present. The
remaining toasts were DOCTOR MELL; Mrs. MICAWBER (who gracefully bowed
her acknowledgements from the side-door, where a galaxy of beauty was
elevated on chairs, at once to witness and adorn the gratifying scene),
Mrs. RIDGER BEGS (late Miss Micawber); Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBER,
ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (who convulsed the assembly by humorously remarking that
he found himself unable to return thanks in a speech, but would do so,
with their permission, in a song); Mrs. MICAWBER'S FAMILY (well known,
it is needless to remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At the
conclusion of the proceedings the tables were cleared as if by art-magic
for dancing. Among the votaries of TERPSICHORE, who disported themselves
until Sol gave warning for departure, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior,
and the lovely and accomplished Miss Helena, fourth daughter of Doctor
Mell, were particularly remarkable. '


I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mell, pleased to have
discovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr. Mell, formerly poor
pinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate, when Mr. Peggotty pointing
to another part of the paper, my eyes rested on my own name, and I read
thus:


'TO DAVID COPPERFIELD, ESQUIRE,

'THE EMINENT AUTHOR.

'My Dear Sir,

'Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of ocularly perusing the
lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations of a considerable portion
of the civilized world.

'But, my dear Sir, though estranged (by the force of circumstances over
which I have had no control) from the personal society of the friend and
companion of my youth, I have not been unmindful of his soaring flight.
Nor have I been debarred,

Though seas between us braid ha' roared,

(BURNS) from participating in the intellectual feasts he has spread
before us.

'I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from this place of an
individual whom we mutually respect and esteem, without, my dear Sir,
taking this public opportunity of thanking you, on my own behalf, and,
I may undertake to add, on that of the whole of the Inhabitants of Port
Middlebay, for the gratification of which you are the ministering agent.

'Go on, my dear Sir! You are not unknown here, you are not
unappreciated. Though "remote", we are neither "unfriended",
"melancholy", nor (I may add) "slow". Go on, my dear Sir, in your Eagle
course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire to watch
it, with delight, with entertainment, with instruction!

'Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of the globe,
will ever be found, while it has light and life,

'The
'Eye
'Appertaining to

'WILKINS MICAWBER,
'Magistrate. '


I found, on glancing at the remaining contents of the newspaper, that
Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed correspondent of that journal.
There was another letter from him in the same paper, touching a bridge;
there was an advertisement of a collection of similar letters by him, to
be shortly republished, in a neat volume, 'with considerable additions';
and, unless I am very much mistaken, the Leading Article was his also.

We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other evenings while Mr.
Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us during the whole term of his
stay,--which, I think, was something less than a month,--and his sister
and my aunt came to London to see him. Agnes and I parted from him
aboard-ship, when he sailed; and we shall never part from him more, on
earth.

But before he left, he went with me to Yarmouth, to see a little tablet
I had put up in the churchyard to the memory of Ham. While I was copying
the plain inscription for him at his request, I saw him stoop, and
gather a tuft of grass from the grave and a little earth.

'For Em'ly,' he said, as he put it in his breast. 'I promised, Mas'r
Davy. '



CHAPTER 64. A LAST RETROSPECT


And now my written story ends. I look back, once more--for the last
time--before I close these leaves.

I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life.
I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of
many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on.

What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these;
all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question!

Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four-score
years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a
stretch in winter weather.

Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in
spectacles, accustomed to do needle-work at night very close to the
lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a
yard-measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St.
Paul's upon the lid.

The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days,
when I wondered why the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples,
are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole
neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still);
but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket
nutmeg-grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching
at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour
at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt's old disappointment is set
right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora
(the next in order) says she spoils her.

There is something bulky in Peggotty's pocket. It is nothing smaller
than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by
this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which
Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very
curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile
stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of
Sheffield.

Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant
kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there
are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods
and winks, 'Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the
Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt's the most
extraordinary woman in the world, sir! '

Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me
a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty,
feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the
mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered
woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say.

'Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman's name. '

Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, 'Mr. Copperfield. '

'I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I
hope Time will be good to you. '

Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids
her look again, tries to rouse her.

'You have seen my son, sir,' says the elder lady. 'Are you reconciled? '

Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans.
Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, 'Rosa, come to me. He is
dead! ' Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels
with her; now fiercely telling her, 'I loved him better than you ever
did! '--now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus
I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away,
from year to year.

What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this,
married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of ears? Can
this be Julia Mills?

Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry
cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman
in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin
in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never
sings Affection's Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Croesus,
who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in
money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her
better in the Desert of Sahara.

Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately
house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no
green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower.
What Julia calls 'society', I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his
Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me
of the Doctor as 'so charmingly antique'. But when society is the name
for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is
professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard
mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of
Sahara, and had better find the way out.

And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary
(somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also
the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so
influential as in days of yore!

Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair
(where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant
friction of his lawyer's-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old
Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as
I look around me:

'If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to do! '

'You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days,
too, in Holborn Court! Were they not? '

'When she told you you would be a judge? But it was not the town talk
then! '

'At all events,' says Traddles, 'if I ever am one--' 'Why, you know you
will be. '

'Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell the story, as I
said I would. '

We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with
Traddles. It is Sophy's birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses
to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.

'I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most
at heart. There's the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four
hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the
very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars
and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably;
there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house
for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler's decease; and all of them
happy. '

'Except--' I suggest.

'Except the Beauty,' says Traddles. 'Yes. It was very unfortunate that
she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain dash and glare
about him that caught her. However, now we have got her safe at our
house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up again. '

Traddles's house is one of the very houses--or it easily may have
been--which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening walks.
It
is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his dressing-room
and his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselves into
upper rooms, reserving the best bedrooms for the Beauty and the girls.
There is no room to spare in the house; for more of 'the girls' are
here, and always are here, by some accident or other, than I know how
to count. Here, when we go in, is a crowd of them, running down to
the door, and handing Traddles about to be kissed, until he is out of
breath. Here, established in perpetuity, is the poor Beauty, a widow
with a little girl; here, at dinner on Sophy's birthday, are the three
married girls with their three husbands, and one of the husband's
brothers, and another husband's cousin, and another husband's sister,
who appears to me to be engaged to the cousin. Traddles, exactly the
same simple, unaffected fellow as he ever was, sits at the foot of the
large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon him, from the head,
across a cheerful space that is certainly not glittering with Britannia
metal.

And now, as I close my task, subduing my desire to linger yet, these
faces fade away. But one face, shining on me like a Heavenly light by
which I see all other objects, is above them and beyond them all. And
that remains.

I turn my head, and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me.

My lamp burns low, and I have written far into the night; but the dear
presence, without which I were nothing, bears me company.

O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life
indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me, like the shadows
which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!