No More Learning

' and softly patted my hand again, as I sat looking
thoughtfully at the fire.

Thoughtfully, for I could not be here once more, and so near Agnes,
without the revival of those regrets with which I had so long been
occupied. Softened regrets they might be, teaching me what I had failed
to learn when my younger life was all before me, but not the less
regrets. 'Oh, Trot,' I seemed to hear my aunt say once more; and I
understood her better now--'Blind, blind, blind! '

We both kept silence for some minutes. When I raised my eyes, I found
that she was steadily observant of me. Perhaps she had followed the
current of my mind; for it seemed to me an easy one to track now, wilful
as it had been once.

'You will find her father a white-haired old man,' said my aunt, 'though
a better man in all other respects--a reclaimed man. Neither will you
find him measuring all human interests, and joys, and sorrows, with his
one poor little inch-rule now. Trust me, child, such things must shrink
very much, before they can be measured off in that way. '

'Indeed they must,' said I.

'You will find her,' pursued my aunt, 'as good, as beautiful, as
earnest, as disinterested, as she has always been. If I knew higher
praise, Trot, I would bestow it on her. '

There was no higher praise for her; no higher reproach for me. Oh, how
had I strayed so far away!

'If she trains the young girls whom she has about her, to be like
herself,' said my aunt, earnest even to the filling of her eyes with
tears, 'Heaven knows, her life will be well employed! Useful and happy,
as she said that day! How could she be otherwise than useful and happy! '

'Has Agnes any--' I was thinking aloud, rather than speaking.

'Well? Hey? Any what? ' said my aunt, sharply.

'Any lover,' said I.

'A score,' cried my aunt, with a kind of indignant pride. 'She might
have married twenty times, my dear, since you have been gone! '

'No doubt,' said I. 'No doubt. But has she any lover who is worthy of
her? Agnes could care for no other. '

My aunt sat musing for a little while, with her chin upon her hand.
Slowly raising her eyes to mine, she said:

'I suspect she has an attachment, Trot. '

'A prosperous one? ' said I.

'Trot,' returned my aunt gravely, 'I can't say. I have no right to tell
you even so much. She has never confided it to me, but I suspect it. '

She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw her tremble),
that I felt now, more than ever, that she had followed my late thoughts.
I summoned all the resolutions I had made, in all those many days and
nights, and all those many conflicts of my heart.

'If it should be so,' I began, 'and I hope it is-'

'I don't know that it is,' said my aunt curtly. 'You must not be ruled
by my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They are very slight,
perhaps. I have no right to speak. '

'If it should be so,' I repeated, 'Agnes will tell me at her own good
time. A sister to whom I have confided so much, aunt, will not be
reluctant to confide in me. '

My aunt withdrew her eyes from mine, as slowly as she had turned them
upon me; and covered them thoughtfully with her hand. By and by she
put her other hand on my shoulder; and so we both sat, looking into the
past, without saying another word, until we parted for the night.

I rode away, early in the morning, for the scene of my old school-days.
I cannot say that I was yet quite happy, in the hope that I was gaining
a victory over myself; even in the prospect of so soon looking on her
face again.

The well-remembered ground was soon traversed, and I came into the quiet
streets, where every stone was a boy's book to me. I went on foot to the
old house, and went away with a heart too full to enter. I returned; and
looking, as I passed, through the low window of the turret-room where
first Uriah Heep, and afterwards Mr. Micawber, had been wont to sit,
saw that it was a little parlour now, and that there was no office.
Otherwise the staid old house was, as to its cleanliness and order,
still just as it had been when I first saw it. I requested the new maid
who admitted me, to tell Miss Wickfield that a gentleman who waited on
her from a friend abroad, was there; and I was shown up the grave old
staircase (cautioned of the steps I knew so well), into the unchanged
drawing-room. The books that Agnes and I had read together, were on
their shelves; and the desk where I had laboured at my lessons, many
a night, stood yet at the same old corner of the table. All the little
changes that had crept in when the Heeps were there, were changed again.
Everything was as it used to be, in the happy time.

I stood in a window, and looked across the ancient street at the
opposite houses, recalling how I had watched them on wet afternoons,
when I first came there; and how I had used to speculate about the
people who appeared at any of the windows, and had followed them with my
eyes up and down stairs, while women went clicking along the pavement in
pattens, and the dull rain fell in slanting lines, and poured out of the
water-spout yonder, and flowed into the road. The feeling with which
I used to watch the tramps, as they came into the town on those wet
evenings, at dusk, and limped past, with their bundles drooping over
their shoulders at the ends of sticks, came freshly back to me; fraught,
as then, with the smell of damp earth, and wet leaves and briar, and the
sensation of the very airs that blew upon me in my own toilsome journey.

The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made me start and
turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as she came towards me. She
stopped and laid her hand upon her bosom, and I caught her in my arms.

'Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you. '

'No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood! '

'Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me, to see you once again! '

I folded her to my heart, and, for a little while, we were both silent.
Presently we sat down, side by side; and her angel-face was turned upon
me with the welcome I had dreamed of, waking and sleeping, for whole
years.

She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good,--I owed her so
much gratitude, she was so dear to me, that I could find no utterance
for what I felt. I tried to bless her, tried to thank her, tried to tell
her (as I had often done in letters) what an influence she had upon me;
but all my efforts were in vain. My love and joy were dumb.

With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agitation; led me back to
the time of our parting; spoke to me of Emily, whom she had visited,
in secret, many times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora's grave. With the
unerring instinct of her noble heart, she touched the chords of my
memory so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred within me; I
could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrink from
nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, was her dear
self, the better angel of my life?

'And you, Agnes,' I said, by and by. 'Tell me of yourself. You have
hardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time! '

'What should I tell? ' she answered, with her radiant smile. 'Papa is
well. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest,
our home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, you know all. '

'All, Agnes? ' said I.

She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face.

'Is there nothing else, Sister? ' I said.

Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again. She
smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head.

I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply
painful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to
discipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she was
uneasy, and I let it pass.

'You have much to do, dear Agnes? '

'With my school? ' said she, looking up again, in all her bright
composure.

'Yes. It is laborious, is it not? '

'The labour is so pleasant,' she returned, 'that it is scarcely grateful
in me to call it by that name. '

'Nothing good is difficult to you,' said I.

Her colour came and went once more; and once more, as she bent her head,
I saw the same sad smile.

'You will wait and see papa,' said Agnes, cheerfully, 'and pass the
day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We always call it
yours. '

I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my aunt's at night;
but I would pass the day there, joyfully.

'I must be a prisoner for a little while,' said Agnes, 'but here are the
old books, Trotwood, and the old music. '

'Even the old flowers are here,' said I, looking round; 'or the old
kinds. '

'I have found a pleasure,' returned Agnes, smiling, 'while you have been
absent, in keeping everything as it used to be when we were children.
For we were very happy then, I think. '

'Heaven knows we were! ' said I.

'And every little thing that has reminded me of my brother,' said Agnes,
with her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon me, 'has been a welcome
companion. Even this,' showing me the basket-trifle, full of keys, still
hanging at her side, 'seems to jingle a kind of old tune! '

She smiled again, and went out at the door by which she had come.

It was for me to guard this sisterly affection with religious care. It
was all that I had left myself, and it was a treasure. If I once shook
the foundations of the sacred confidence and usage, in virtue of which
it was given to me, it was lost, and could never be recovered. I set
this steadily before myself. The better I loved her, the more it behoved
me never to forget it.

I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my old adversary the
butcher--now a constable, with his staff hanging up in the shop--went
down to look at the place where I had fought him; and there meditated
on Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss Larkins, and all the idle loves and
likings, and dislikings, of that time. Nothing seemed to have survived
that time but Agnes; and she, ever a star above me, was brighter and
higher.

When I returned, Mr. Wickfield had come home, from a garden he had, a
couple of miles or so out of town, where he now employed himself almost
every day. I found him as my aunt had described him. We sat down to
dinner, with some half-dozen little girls; and he seemed but the shadow
of his handsome picture on the wall.

The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that quiet ground in my
memory, pervaded it again. When dinner was done, Mr. Wickfield taking no
wine, and I desiring none, we went up-stairs; where Agnes and her little
charges sang and played, and worked. After tea the children left us; and
we three sat together, talking of the bygone days.

'My part in them,' said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white head, 'has much
matter for regret--for deep regret, and deep contrition, Trotwood, you
well know. But I would not cancel it, if it were in my power. '

I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside him.

'I should cancel with it,' he pursued, 'such patience and devotion, such
fidelity, such a child's love, as I must not forget, no! even to forget
myself. '

'I understand you, sir,' I softly said. 'I hold it--I have always held
it--in veneration. '

'But no one knows, not even you,' he returned, 'how much she has done,
how much she has undergone, how hard she has striven. Dear Agnes! '

She had put her hand entreatingly on his arm, to stop him; and was very,
very pale.

'Well, well! ' he said with a sigh, dismissing, as I then saw, some trial
she had borne, or was yet to bear, in connexion with what my aunt had
told me. 'Well! I have never told you, Trotwood, of her mother. Has
anyone? '

'Never, sir. '

'It's not much--though it was much to suffer. She married me in
opposition to her father's wish, and he renounced her. She prayed him
to forgive her, before my Agnes came into this world. He was a very hard
man, and her mother had long been dead. He repulsed her. He broke her
heart. '

Agnes leaned upon his shoulder, and stole her arm about his neck.

'She had an affectionate and gentle heart,' he said; 'and it was broken.
I knew its tender nature very well. No one could, if I did not. She
loved me dearly, but was never happy. She was always labouring, in
secret, under this distress; and being delicate and downcast at the time
of his last repulse--for it was not the first, by many--pined away
and died. She left me Agnes, two weeks old; and the grey hair that you
recollect me with, when you first came. ' He kissed Agnes on her cheek.

'My love for my dear child was a diseased love, but my mind was all
unhealthy then. I say no more of that. I am not speaking of myself,
Trotwood, but of her mother, and of her. If I give you any clue to what
I am, or to what I have been, you will unravel it, I know. What Agnes
is, I need not say. I have always read something of her poor mother's
story, in her character; and so I tell it you tonight, when we three are
again together, after such great changes. I have told it all. '

His bowed head, and her angel-face and filial duty, derived a more
pathetic meaning from it than they had had before. If I had wanted
anything by which to mark this night of our re-union, I should have
found it in this.

Agnes rose up from her father's side, before long; and going softly to
her piano, played some of the old airs to which we had often listened in
that place.

'Have you any intention of going away again? ' Agnes asked me, as I was
standing by.

'What does my sister say to that? '

'I hope not. '

'Then I have no such intention, Agnes. '

'I think you ought not, Trotwood, since you ask me,' she said, mildly.
'Your growing reputation and success enlarge your power of doing good;
and if I could spare my brother,' with her eyes upon me, 'perhaps the
time could not. '

'What I am, you have made me, Agnes. You should know best. '

'I made you, Trotwood? '

'Yes! Agnes, my dear girl! ' I said, bending over her. 'I tried to tell
you, when we met today, something that has been in my thoughts since
Dora died. You remember, when you came down to me in our little
room--pointing upward, Agnes? '

'Oh, Trotwood! ' she returned, her eyes filled with tears. 'So loving, so
confiding, and so young! Can I ever forget? '

'As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, you have ever
been to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever leading me to something
better; ever directing me to higher things! '

She only shook her head; through her tears I saw the same sad quiet
smile.

'And I am so grateful to you for it, Agnes, so bound to you, that there
is no name for the affection of my heart. I want you to know, yet don't
know how to tell you, that all my life long I shall look up to you,
and be guided by you, as I have been through the darkness that is past.
Whatever betides, whatever new ties you may form, whatever changes may
come between us, I shall always look to you, and love you, as I do now,
and have always done. You will always be my solace and resource, as you
have always been. Until I die, my dearest sister, I shall see you always
before me, pointing upward! '

She put her hand in mine, and told me she was proud of me, and of what I
said; although I praised her very far beyond her worth. Then she went
on softly playing, but without removing her eyes from me.
'Do you know,
what I have heard tonight, Agnes,' said I, strangely seems to be a part
of the feeling with which I regarded you when I saw you first--with
which I sat beside you in my rough school-days? '

'You knew I had no mother,' she replied with a smile, 'and felt kindly
towards me. '

'More than that, Agnes, I knew, almost as if I had known this story,
that there was something inexplicably gentle and softened, surrounding
you; something that might have been sorrowful in someone else (as I can
now understand it was), but was not so in you. '

She softly played on, looking at me still.

'Will you laugh at my cherishing such fancies, Agnes? '

'No! '

'Or at my saying that I really believe I felt, even then, that you could
be faithfully affectionate against all discouragement, and never cease
to be so, until you ceased to live? ---Will you laugh at such a dream? '

'Oh, no! Oh, no! '

For an instant, a distressful shadow crossed her face; but, even in the
start it gave me, it was gone; and she was playing on, and looking at me
with her own calm smile.

As I rode back in the lonely night, the wind going by me like a restless
memory, I thought of this, and feared she was not happy. I was not
happy; but, thus far, I had faithfully set the seal upon the Past, and,
thinking of her, pointing upward, thought of her as pointing to that
sky above me, where, in the mystery to come, I might yet love her with
a love unknown on earth, and tell her what the strife had been within me
when I loved her here.



CHAPTER 61. I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS


For a time--at all events until my book should be completed, which would
be the work of several months--I took up my abode in my aunt's house at
Dover; and there, sitting in the window from which I had looked out at
the moon upon the sea, when that roof first gave me shelter, I quietly
pursued my task.

In pursuance of my intention of referring to my own fictions only when
their course should incidentally connect itself with the progress of my
story, I do not enter on the aspirations, the delights, anxieties, and
triumphs of my art. That I truly devoted myself to it with my strongest
earnestness, and bestowed upon it every energy of my soul, I have
already said. If the books I have written be of any worth, they will
supply the rest. I shall otherwise have written to poor purpose, and the
rest will be of interest to no one.

Occasionally, I went to London; to lose myself in the swarm of life
there, or to consult with Traddles on some business point. He had
managed for me, in my absence, with the soundest judgement; and my
worldly affairs were prospering. As my notoriety began to bring upon
me an enormous quantity of letters from people of whom I had no
knowledge--chiefly about nothing, and extremely difficult to answer--I
agreed with Traddles to have my name painted up on his door. There, the
devoted postman on that beat delivered bushels of letters for me; and
there, at intervals, I laboured through them, like a Home Secretary of
State without the salary.

Among this correspondence, there dropped in, every now and then, an
obliging proposal from one of the numerous outsiders always lurking
about the Commons, to practise under cover of my name (if I would take
the necessary steps remaining to make a proctor of myself), and pay me
a percentage on the profits. But I declined these offers; being already
aware that there were plenty of such covert practitioners in existence,
and considering the Commons quite bad enough, without my doing anything
to make it worse.

The girls had gone home, when my name burst into bloom on Traddles's
door; and the sharp boy looked, all day, as if he had never heard of
Sophy, shut up in a back room, glancing down from her work into a sooty
little strip of garden with a pump in it. But there I always found her,
the same bright housewife; often humming her Devonshire ballads when no
strange foot was coming up the stairs, and blunting the sharp boy in his
official closet with melody.

I wondered, at first, why I so often found Sophy writing in a copy-book;
and why she always shut it up when I appeared, and hurried it into the
table-drawer. But the secret soon came out. One day, Traddles (who had
just come home through the drizzling sleet from Court) took a paper out
of his desk, and asked me what I thought of that handwriting?

'Oh, DON'T, Tom! ' cried Sophy, who was warming his slippers before the
fire.

'My dear,' returned Tom, in a delighted state, 'why not? What do you say
to that writing, Copperfield? '

'It's extraordinarily legal and formal,' said I. 'I don't think I ever
saw such a stiff hand. '

'Not like a lady's hand, is it? ' said Traddles.

'A lady's! ' I repeated. 'Bricks and mortar are more like a lady's hand! '

Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me that it was
Sophy's writing; that Sophy had vowed and declared he would need a
copying-clerk soon, and she would be that clerk; that she had acquired
this hand from a pattern; and that she could throw off--I forget how
many folios an hour. Sophy was very much confused by my being told all
this, and said that when 'Tom' was made a judge he wouldn't be so ready
to proclaim it. Which 'Tom' denied; averring that he should always be
equally proud of it, under all circumstances.

'What a thoroughly good and charming wife she is, my dear Traddles! '
said I, when she had gone away, laughing.

'My dear Copperfield,' returned Traddles, 'she is, without any
exception, the dearest girl! The way she manages this place; her
punctuality, domestic knowledge, economy, and order; her cheerfulness,
Copperfield! '

'Indeed, you have reason to commend her! ' I returned. 'You are a happy
fellow. I believe you make yourselves, and each other, two of the
happiest people in the world. '

'I am sure we ARE two of the happiest people,' returned Traddles. 'I
admit that, at all events. Bless my soul, when I see her getting up
by candle-light on these dark mornings, busying herself in the day's
arrangements, going out to market before the clerks come into the Inn,
caring for no weather, devising the most capital little dinners out of
the plainest materials, making puddings and pies, keeping everything in
its right place, always so neat and ornamental herself, sitting up
at night with me if it's ever so late, sweet-tempered and encouraging
always, and all for me, I positively sometimes can't believe it,
Copperfield! '

He was tender of the very slippers she had been warming, as he put them
on, and stretched his feet enjoyingly upon the fender.

'I positively sometimes can't believe it,' said Traddles. 'Then our
pleasures! Dear me, they are inexpensive, but they are quite wonderful!
When we are at home here, of an evening, and shut the outer door, and
draw those curtains--which she made--where could we be more snug? When
it's fine, and we go out for a walk in the evening, the streets
abound in enjoyment for us. We look into the glittering windows of the
jewellers' shops; and I show Sophy which of the diamond-eyed serpents,
coiled up on white satin rising grounds, I would give her if I could
afford it; and Sophy shows me which of the gold watches that are
capped and jewelled and engine-turned, and possessed of the horizontal
lever-escape-movement, and all sorts of things, she would buy for me if
she could afford it; and we pick out the spoons and forks, fish-slices,
butter-knives, and sugar-tongs, we should both prefer if we could both
afford it; and really we go away as if we had got them! Then, when we
stroll into the squares, and great streets, and see a house to let,
sometimes we look up at it, and say, how would THAT do, if I was made
a judge? And we parcel it out--such a room for us, such rooms for the
girls, and so forth; until we settle to our satisfaction that it
would do, or it wouldn't do, as the case may be. Sometimes, we go at
half-price to the pit of the theatre--the very smell of which is cheap,
in my opinion, at the money--and there we thoroughly enjoy the play:
which Sophy believes every word of, and so do I. In walking home,
perhaps we buy a little bit of something at a cook's-shop, or a little
lobster at the fishmongers, and bring it here, and make a splendid
supper, chatting about what we have seen. Now, you know, Copperfield, if
I was Lord Chancellor, we couldn't do this! '

'You would do something, whatever you were, my dear Traddles,' thought
I, 'that would be pleasant and amiable. And by the way,' I said aloud,
'I suppose you never draw any skeletons now? '

'Really,' replied Traddles, laughing, and reddening, 'I can't wholly
deny that I do, my dear Copperfield. For being in one of the back rows
of the King's Bench the other day, with a pen in my hand, the fancy came
into my head to try how I had preserved that accomplishment. And I am
afraid there's a skeleton--in a wig--on the ledge of the desk. '

After we had both laughed heartily, Traddles wound up by looking with a
smile at the fire, and saying, in his forgiving way, 'Old Creakle! '

'I have a letter from that old--Rascal here,' said I. For I never was
less disposed to forgive him the way he used to batter Traddles, than
when I saw Traddles so ready to forgive him himself.

'From Creakle the schoolmaster? ' exclaimed Traddles. 'No! '

'Among the persons who are attracted to me in my rising fame and
fortune,' said I, looking over my letters, 'and who discover that they
were always much attached to me, is the self-same Creakle. He is not
a schoolmaster now, Traddles. He is retired. He is a Middlesex
Magistrate. '

I thought Traddles might be surprised to hear it, but he was not so at
all.

'How do you suppose he comes to be a Middlesex Magistrate? ' said I.

'Oh dear me! ' replied Traddles, 'it would be very difficult to answer
that question. Perhaps he voted for somebody, or lent money to somebody,
or bought something of somebody, or otherwise obliged somebody, or
jobbed for somebody, who knew somebody who got the lieutenant of the
county to nominate him for the commission. '

'On the commission he is, at any rate,' said I. 'And he writes to me
here, that he will be glad to show me, in operation, the only true
system of prison discipline; the only unchallengeable way of making
sincere and lasting converts and penitents--which, you know, is by
solitary confinement. What do you say? '

'To the system? ' inquired Traddles, looking grave.

'No. To my accepting the offer, and your going with me? '

'I don't object,' said Traddles.

'Then I'll write to say so. You remember (to say nothing of our
treatment) this same Creakle turning his son out of doors, I suppose,
and the life he used to lead his wife and daughter? '

'Perfectly,' said Traddles.

'Yet, if you'll read his letter, you'll find he is the tenderest of
men to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felonies,' said I;
'though I can't find that his tenderness extends to any other class of
created beings. '

Traddles shrugged his shoulders, and was not at all surprised. I had not
expected him to be, and was not surprised myself; or my observation of
similar practical satires would have been but scanty. We arranged the
time of our visit, and I wrote accordingly to Mr. Creakle that evening.

On the appointed day--I think it was the next day, but no
matter--Traddles and I repaired to the prison where Mr. Creakle was
powerful. It was an immense and solid building, erected at a vast
expense. I could not help thinking, as we approached the gate, what
an uproar would have been made in the country, if any deluded man had
proposed to spend one half the money it had cost, on the erection of an
industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge for the deserving
old.

In an office that might have been on the ground-floor of the Tower of
Babel, it was so massively constructed, we were presented to our old
schoolmaster; who was one of a group, composed of two or three of the
busier sort of magistrates, and some visitors they had brought. He
received me, like a man who had formed my mind in bygone years, and
had always loved me tenderly. On my introducing Traddles, Mr. Creakle
expressed, in like manner, but in an inferior degree, that he had always
been Traddles's guide, philosopher, and friend. Our venerable instructor
was a great deal older, and not improved in appearance. His face was
as fiery as ever; his eyes were as small, and rather deeper set. The
scanty, wet-looking grey hair, by which I remembered him, was almost
gone; and the thick veins in his bald head were none the more agreeable
to look at.

After some conversation among these gentlemen, from which I might have
supposed that there was nothing in the world to be legitimately taken
into account but the supreme comfort of prisoners, at any expense, and
nothing on the wide earth to be done outside prison-doors, we began
our inspection. It being then just dinner-time, we went, first into the
great kitchen, where every prisoner's dinner was in course of being set
out separately (to be handed to him in his cell), with the regularity
and precision of clock-work. I said aside, to Traddles, that I wondered
whether it occurred to anybody, that there was a striking contrast
between these plentiful repasts of choice quality, and the dinners, not
to say of paupers, but of soldiers, sailors, labourers, the great bulk
of the honest, working community; of whom not one man in five hundred
ever dined half so well. But I learned that the 'system' required high
living; and, in short, to dispose of the system, once for all, I found
that on that head and on all others, 'the system' put an end to all
doubts, and disposed of all anomalies. Nobody appeared to have the least
idea that there was any other system, but THE system, to be considered.

As we were going through some of the magnificent passages, I inquired of
Mr. Creakle and his friends what were supposed to be the main advantages
of this all-governing and universally over-riding system? I found
them to be the perfect isolation of prisoners--so that no one man in
confinement there, knew anything about another; and the reduction of
prisoners to a wholesome state of mind, leading to sincere contrition
and repentance.

Now, it struck me, when we began to visit individuals in their cells,
and to traverse the passages in which those cells were, and to have the
manner of the going to chapel and so forth, explained to us, that there
was a strong probability of the prisoners knowing a good deal about each
other, and of their carrying on a pretty complete system of intercourse.
This, at the time I write, has been proved, I believe, to be the case;
but, as it would have been flat blasphemy against the system to have
hinted such a doubt then, I looked out for the penitence as diligently
as I could.

And here again, I had great misgivings. I found as prevalent a fashion
in the form of the penitence, as I had left outside in the forms of the
coats and waistcoats in the windows of the tailors' shops. I found a
vast amount of profession, varying very little in character: varying
very little (which I thought exceedingly suspicious), even in words. I
found a great many foxes, disparaging whole vineyards of inaccessible
grapes; but I found very few foxes whom I would have trusted within
reach of a bunch. Above all, I found that the most professing men were
the greatest objects of interest; and that their conceit, their vanity,
their want of excitement, and their love of deception (which many
of them possessed to an almost incredible extent, as their histories
showed), all prompted to these professions, and were all gratified by
them.

However, I heard so repeatedly, in the course of our goings to and fro,
of a certain Number Twenty Seven, who was the Favourite, and who really
appeared to be a Model Prisoner, that I resolved to suspend my judgement
until I should see Twenty Seven. Twenty Eight, I understood, was also
a bright particular star; but it was his misfortune to have his glory
a little dimmed by the extraordinary lustre of Twenty Seven. I heard so
much of Twenty Seven, of his pious admonitions to everybody around him,
and of the beautiful letters he constantly wrote to his mother (whom he
seemed to consider in a very bad way), that I became quite impatient to
see him.

I had to restrain my impatience for some time, on account of Twenty
Seven being reserved for a concluding effect. But, at last, we came to
the door of his cell; and Mr. Creakle, looking through a little hole in
it, reported to us, in a state of the greatest admiration, that he was
reading a Hymn Book.

There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Number Twenty Seven
reading his Hymn Book, that the little hole was blocked up, six or seven
heads deep. To remedy this inconvenience, and give us an opportunity of
conversing with Twenty Seven in all his purity, Mr. Creakle directed the
door of the cell to be unlocked, and Twenty Seven to be invited out into
the passage. This was done; and whom should Traddles and I then behold,
to our amazement, in this converted Number Twenty Seven, but Uriah Heep!

He knew us directly; and said, as he came out--with the old writhe,--

'How do you do, Mr. Copperfield? How do you do, Mr. Traddles? '

This recognition caused a general admiration in the party. I rather
thought that everyone was struck by his not being proud, and taking
notice of us.

'Well, Twenty Seven,' said Mr. Creakle, mournfully admiring him. 'How do
you find yourself today? '

'I am very umble, sir! ' replied Uriah Heep.

'You are always so, Twenty Seven,' said Mr. Creakle.

Here, another gentleman asked, with extreme anxiety: 'Are you quite
comfortable? '

'Yes, I thank you, sir! ' said Uriah Heep, looking in that direction.
'Far more comfortable here, than ever I was outside. I see my follies,
now, sir. That's what makes me comfortable. '

Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third questioner, forcing
himself to the front, inquired with extreme feeling: 'How do you find
the beef? '

'Thank you, sir,' replied Uriah, glancing in the new direction of this
voice, 'it was tougher yesterday than I could wish; but it's my duty to
bear. I have committed follies, gentlemen,' said Uriah, looking round
with a meek smile, 'and I ought to bear the consequences without
repining. ' A murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty Seven's celestial
state of mind, and partly of indignation against the Contractor who had
given him any cause of complaint (a note of which was immediately made
by Mr. Creakle), having subsided, Twenty Seven stood in the midst of
us, as if he felt himself the principal object of merit in a highly
meritorious museum. That we, the neophytes, might have an excess of
light shining upon us all at once, orders were given to let out Twenty
Eight.

I had been so much astonished already, that I only felt a kind of
resigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forth, reading a good book!

'Twenty Eight,' said a gentleman in spectacles, who had not yet spoken,
'you complained last week, my good fellow, of the cocoa. How has it been
since? '

'I thank you, sir,' said Mr. Littimer, 'it has been better made. If I
might take the liberty of saying so, sir, I don't think the milk which
is boiled with it is quite genuine; but I am aware, sir, that there is
a great adulteration of milk, in London, and that the article in a pure
state is difficult to be obtained. '

It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed his Twenty
Eight against Mr. Creakle's Twenty Seven, for each of them took his own
man in hand.

'What is your state of mind, Twenty Eight? ' said the questioner in
spectacles.

'I thank you, sir,' returned Mr. Littimer; 'I see my follies now, sir.
I am a good deal troubled when I think of the sins of my former
companions, sir; but I trust they may find forgiveness. '

'You are quite happy yourself? ' said the questioner, nodding
encouragement.

'I am much obliged to you, sir,' returned Mr. Littimer. 'Perfectly so. '

'Is there anything at all on your mind now? ' said the questioner. 'If
so, mention it, Twenty Eight. '

'Sir,' said Mr. Littimer, without looking up, 'if my eyes have not
deceived me, there is a gentleman present who was acquainted with me
in my former life. It may be profitable to that gentleman to know, sir,
that I attribute my past follies, entirely to having lived a thoughtless
life in the service of young men; and to having allowed myself to be led
by them into weaknesses, which I had not the strength to resist. I hope
that gentleman will take warning, sir, and will not be offended at my
freedom. It is for his good. I am conscious of my own past follies. I
hope he may repent of all the wickedness and sin to which he has been a
party. '

I observed that several gentlemen were shading their eyes, each with one
hand, as if they had just come into church.

'This does you credit, Twenty Eight,' returned the questioner. 'I should
have expected it of you. Is there anything else? '

'Sir,' returned Mr. Littimer, slightly lifting up his eyebrows, but not
his eyes, 'there was a young woman who fell into dissolute courses, that
I endeavoured to save, sir, but could not rescue. I beg that gentleman,
if he has it in his power, to inform that young woman from me that
I forgive her her bad conduct towards myself, and that I call her to
repentance--if he will be so good.