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    Great Expectations
    Great Expectations
    Great Expectations
    Ebook650 pages10 hours

    Great Expectations

    By Charles Dickens

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    Pip is a young orphan who wants nothing more than to become a gentleman and be worthy of the beautiful but snobby Estella. So when he receives a large fortune from an unknown benefactor to undergo training, he's ecstatic and convinced it must be from Miss Havisham, Estella's strange guardian. However, the culture of wealth breeds changes in Pip that his loyal friends find insulting. It may take the unsavory criminal from Pip's childhood to help him get his priorities in order and reset his expectations. Taken from the 1867 copyright edition, this is an unabridged version of English author Charles Dickens's classic tragic comedy.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLerner Publishing
    Release dateAug 1, 2014
    ISBN9781467756501
    Author

    Charles Dickens

    Charles Dickens (1812-1870) var þekktur enskur skáldsagnahöfundur og samfélagsgagnrýnandi, almennt talinn einn af merkustu rithöfundum Viktoríutímans. Dickens fæddist í Portsmouth á Englandi og upplifði erfiða æsku, sem einkenndist af fjárhagserfiðleikum, sem síðar hafði áhrif á mikið af skrifum hans. Dickens öðlaðist frægð með raðmyndasögum og varð þekktur fyrir hæfileika sína til að sameina húmor, mikla félagslega athugun og djúpt mannlegar persónur. Verk hans varpa ljósi á baráttu fátækra, galla stofnanakerfa og mikið misræmi á milli þjóðfélagsstétta í Englandi á 19. öld. Í dag er Dickens ekki aðeins fagnað fyrir sannfærandi frásagnir heldur einnig fyrir varanleg áhrif hans á bókmenntir og samfélag.

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    Reviews for Great Expectations

    4/5

    7,592 ratings146 reviews

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    • 3/5
      Enjoyable as an audiobook. Well written.
    • 5/5
      Great book. "You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose..." Perfect. I think I've read it four times, but I'm sure I'll read it again.
    • 2/5
      I hated this book. I know it's a classic and I've met people who love it, but I just can't.

      The point of view gives a very skewed view of women and out motivations and it annoyed me too much to enjoy the other bits. I know there's lot of merit and so on, but it was just hard to for me stomach, especially at the age that I was when I first read it. It brought on emerging feelings about my place in the world and scared the crap out of me. I didn't mean to make it all about the image of women, but sometimes stories that really have nothing to do with us that way scare the hell out of me. This was one of those.

      And yeah, I get it that some find this irrational.
    • 5/5
      My favorite Dickens novel.
    • 4/5
      I am giving this audiobook edition 4* but downgrading my rating for the book itself to 3 ½ stars. I found Pip's devotion to Estella romantic but unconvincing and Pip himself I don't care for very much. This is my third or fourth time reading this novel and I keep hoping that I will discover why so many people think it is Dickens greatest. I like David Copperfield so much that I guess I just wish to feel the same fondness for this... Oh well.
    • 5/5
      Magnificent, of course. Mr. Dickens is amazing.
    • 3/5
      Great Expectations is a good book, but not awesome. Story is reasonably fast moving even though language is flowery and dialogues are noteworthy. There is undercurrent of humour and irony in whole narrative though never really explicit. Characters are engaging and some are even haunting too. That said, it always remains a mystery why this is considered popular classic and not others. There is not much substance to story but whole lot of emotional content without being melodramatic. Overall, I am glad that I read this, though I wouldn't have missed anything if I didn't.
    • 4/5
      The writing is stellar. The narration is first-rate. The story is, um, Dickensian, which I now understand to mean brilliant and peopled with billions of fascinating characters. However, I just don't like Pip, and that keeps me from giving this one five stars.
    • 4/5
      This was the first book by Dickens I have read and, based on this one, I'll definitely read another. At times the vernacular was a little clunky and hard to follow - but that is just because of the change in times and, more than likely, the British influence.

      As much as I enjoyed the book I think I'd rename it to "Great Coincidences" as it is chock full of them. In fact every relationship, except those between Pip and his Joe are pretty much purely coincidental and yet those ties interweave throughout the story and continue to build and pile upon one another throughout the tale. Pip, Miss Havisham, Estella, Jaggers, Magwitch, etc. They were all coincidentally connected. Yet, for all of that, I still enjoyed the story.

      Pip, as a kid was amiable enough and, as an adult, while he clearly had some failings, he grew on me and remained likable and decent to the core. Perhaps his failings made me like him all the more because he seemed to be altogether believable.

      I hope Dickens other works have survived as well as Great Expectations over the years because, if they have, I have a nice new collection of books in my to-read pile.
    • 3/5
      Great Expectations tells the story of Pip, an orphan brought up by his abusive sister, who rises from the depths of poverty to the status gentleman, through the machinations of an anonymous benefactor.

      Great Expectations, published in 1861, is classified as Bildungsroman, or Coming of Age. This genre focuses on the psychological and moral growth of a main character, in this case Pip. Dickens depicted Pip as whiny and selfish, ready to turn his back on the people who cared most for him, namely Joe Gargery.

      Charles Dickens is a master at social criticism and character development. Miss Havisham has to be one of the most recognized in English literature. She is obviously insane, while being coddled by those around her, malicious in her intentions, and delights in the selfish creature she created in Estella.

      I thought Great Expectations was a decent book, but the middle part (where Pip learns to be a gentleman) dragged on for longer than I liked. I expect this is due to the original serialization of the novel. Pip was too whiny for me to really care for. However, I did enjoy it overall.
    • 3/5
      Another read aloud we did this year as part of Home School. I'd read this book in high school but didn't appreciate it as much then. The story is intriguing and suspenseful. We had many great discussions, about Pip, Joe, the Convict, selflessness, sacrifice and true love. A good read.
    • 2/5
      I had little expectations going into this and it was just as I expected. Dickens's novels are just too wordy to keep my interest.
    • 4/5
      My favourite Dickens. Masterful descriptions and eccentric characters. The story of a coming of age, of overcoming adversities and finding out that many ambitions were misplaced.
    • 4/5
      This was one of those books you have to be ready to read. I was required to read it in high school and I hated it. In later life, I picked it up again and was quite surprised by how much I enjoyed it. The ending dragged on a little long, but it was a very good story. I found myself to be quite intrigued by Miss Havisham. A classic.
    • 4/5
      When I heard the movie "Great Expectations" was going to be shown at a Dubuque theater I determined to read the book, because I am a great believer that one should read a book before seeing the movie, rather than the other way around. So I did that,, finishing the book on March 18, 1948. I saw the movie on March 21, 1948, It is the movie which came out in 1946, starring John Mills,Valerie Hobson, Finlay Currie and Alec Guinness. I know I enjoyed the movie, and what I remember of the story is no doubt based on what I remember of the movie.
    • 5/5
      (Warning, this review has spoilers.)Books become classics for a variety of reasons, but I think this book is a classic because it tackles the major life issues: What do we want to make of our one life? How do the choices of our youth impact our one life, and what impacts, seen and unseen, do we have on the lives of others? Since life is valued uniquely by every individual, this book says something different to every careful reader. Some reviewers on this site even remark that the personal themes of this book change for them as they reread it at different times of their lives. So here are some of my reactions to the book, at least for this, first reading: (1) Pip's shame over Joe. Everybody has done things they regret but Pip's problem is larger -- there is a side of himself that he regrets but cannot bring himself to overcome. Partly because he's so ashamed of himself that he can't face it. What if he could only have talked to Herbert about it? He talks freely to Herbert about everything else -- Estella, Magwitch, his debts -- but not about his shame of home and Joe. He can't say it out loud. He *never* says it out loud. (Just as Miss Haversham won't turn her face to the sun . . . .) What if Pip could have said out loud, "I am ashamed of Joe, and ashamed of myself for feeling that way"? Would he then have been able to deal with it? (What if Biddy had had the nerve to say it to him?) (Tough question for any of us: What am I so ashamed of that I can't say it out loud?) (2) Pip's treatment of Joe. I see this as a two-way street (even though the narrator Pip blames only himself). In their first London meeting, Joe is so uncomfortable that he rushes back home without even staying for dinner. And the invitation he gives Pip is so open-ended, it's easy for Pip to talk himself out of it. Of course Pip wanted to avoid the people of his home town, they were horrible to him, before and after; and the longer he went without a visit, the more awkward the visit would be. But what if Joe had made a direct invitation: "Will you please join us at the Forge for dinner this Sunday, for your dear sister's sake?" Joe's afraid of rejection, perhaps; or feels he shouldn't have to ask; but, after a morning of calling Pip "sir" Joe becomes responsible for some of the distance between them. Unless you want to say, Joe is so simple and stupid that he doesn't bear equal responsibility. Maybe not until Pip accepts Joe fully can Pip shoulder his share of the responsibility in their relationship. And this, perhaps, is another of the gifts Pip receives from Magwitch. Pip feels himself superior to Magwitch, but is grateful towards him, and caring towards him, and patronizing towards him (not telling him the truth about the lost inheritance), and openly shows love towards him; then when Joe comes to take care of Pip while he's sick, Pip is able to adopt some of that same manner with Joe. And just to round out the discussion, I think one of the contributing factors to Pip and Joe's disengagement in Book 2 is the lack of an organizing maternal influence between them. Imagine if Biddy had been Pip's sister, instead of the live-in help -- she could have written a letter saying, "Joe would be so happy to see you. Why don't you come over for dinner this Sunday?" Sometimes a guy just needs to be told what to do. (As an aside, the whole business between Joe and Pip in Book 2 reminds me of what Mr. Emerson said to Lucy in A Room with a View: Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided.)(3) The last scene with Estella. To me, "He saw no shadow of another parting" means he had no problem saying goodbye, because their parting would have no dark side (no shadow). This parting wouldn't impact him the way the last one did. They walk away from the ruins, knowing that what happened there will always be a part of them, but letting go of the physical, worldly aspects -- she's selling the property; he's comfortable never seeing her again. I've googled and read a lot about this ending, some people prefer the original and some prefer this one, but what I haven't seen mentioned is what a disservice both endings do to the character of Estella. Mr. Jaggers had predicted that either Drummle or she would be the winner, but how can any reader believe it would have turned out as it did, that she would have allowed Drummle's abuse to bend and soften her? She was too cold and strong for that. I believe she would have tricked him into his own death within a year, and ended up with all his money, in addition to her own. That's how Miss Haversham raised her to act, and there would have been a cold, bitter justice to it. (4) The real ending. I am surprised that some people find this to be a dark or unhappy book, because to me it seems like a happy ending, for Pip, for Joe and Biddy, for Herbert and Klara, regardless of the last few paragraphs with Estella. Despite the fears he had when his life flashed before his eyes at the lime kiln, Pip lives to accomplish everything he feared would be left undone: he's at Magwitch's side until the end and brings him peace; he's able to open his heart to Joe and Biddy; he repays his debts; he takes joy in the happiness of Herbert and Klara, Joe and Biddy. And in the end he looks forward to being a good uncle to little Pip. Is it supposedly an unhappy ending just because he's not married himself? "A Christmas Carol" is considered to have a happy ending, and Scrooge doesn't come to regret his mistakes until the very end of his life: Pip figures it out in his mid-twenties. In the last paragraph of Chapter 59 (which should have been the last chapter in the book, in my opinion, leaving Estella's future an open question for another book), Pip says, "Many a year went round, before I was a partner in the House; but, I lived happily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my debts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe." He lived happily! How is that not a happy ending?
    • 4/5
      This was my first foray into Dickens. I confess I had to read this twice to get immersed in the vernacular. Still, an enjoyable read of compromised Pip.
    • 2/5
      My least favorite of the five Dickens I have read, this one lacks almost anything that make the other ones great, or even enjoyable. The only sympathetic characters are minor ones (Joe, Biddy, Herbert, Wemmick), and underdeveloped. Pip himself is mostly obnoxious, and my ambivalence toward him as the narrator made it difficult to even care about the book over the first 100 pages or so. The story was terribly slow until Pip got to London, about 1/3 through 535 pages. There are no memorable villains, unless Ms. Havisham is supposed to occupy that slot. But the book´s later twist makes her and Estella's entire arc almost totally irrelevant. Orlick and Compeyson get about 10 pages devoted to them in total, hardly the stuff of satisfying external conflict (plus Mrs. Gargery's relation with Orlick is never resolved). The twists themselves take Dickens' notorious propensity for contrivance to an entirely new and ridiculous level.

      All I knew of the book coming into it was that it featured three of the more memorable characters in pop culture history: Pip, Estella, and Ms. Havisham. By the end, I was left wondering what precise purpose the latter two served, and if the book might indeed have been better overall had they been reduced in importance, or even left out entirely. Better for the reader would be to read either Bleak House or A Tale of Two Cities.
    • 4/5
      Book Two, where Dickens takes the twentysomething Pip to London and raises him with 'great expectations' is startling in how accurately it captures what it means to be a twentysomething - except I'm talking about how accurately it captures that sense in 2012. So Dickens is indeed, as it turns out, the writer everyone has told me he is: the fantastic chronicler of the human condition. I'm thoroughly impressed if I do say so myself. Still, the book does drag a bit here and there, so he still isn't that unparalleled talent I want him to be.

      At least I now know the basis for Miss Havisham, though - Jasper Fforde, you prepped me but also ruined me a little for the great classics.

      More about what I mentersay at RB: wp.me/pGVzJ-q8
    • 4/5
      Wonderful story and John Lee is the perfect narrator for this book. I would have given it 5 stars, but when you are paid by the word, as Dickens was, the stories can sometimes be a bit loooooooong.
    • 1/5
      I loathe this book. Why does the man have to describe every. single. thing. The story itself was torture.
    • 5/5
      My first time reading Dickens. I wasn't prepared for the humor and mystery in this novel. Wemmick's Castle and home life brought such comforting respite. Provis was no angel or do-gooder, and he didn't need to be. In the end, I personally could have done with or without Estella's return, but, oh, that faithful, awkward, dearest of Joes was irreplaceable! I was thrice brought to tears while reading about Pip and his two father-like figures in the last few chapters. It was quite refreshing to see Pip come to himself.
    • 2/5
      Not enough dialogue and too much monologue. Laughed out loud during the beginning of book due to the humor of being beaten in camaraderie between Joe and Pip but then the humor ended and the lengthy monologues began. I wanted many times to just put this book down but for the fact that this book was a classic a plowed on.
    • 2/5
      Thank you, English/Lit teachers of America. It gets a 2 because of your classes in which I HAD to read it. Of course it may have been merely your bad teaching that made it seem a 2. And to those of you who can actually teach, please pardon me. I wish I would have had you as an instructor.
    • 4/5
      I still like this story. Dickens always seems lame until I read him. Then I remember why he was the Stephen King/Tom Clancy of 19th Century Britain (in that he sold well and was long-winded). At least Dickens came right out and attacked the system.
    • 4/5
      I'm sure I've read Great Expectations before, or I tried to, but after I got to a certain point I didn't remember ever reading any of it before, so I think perhaps I never finished it. It does take some time and attention, certainly, but it was easier to read than I remember. I'm aware that Charles Dickens' novels contain a lot of social commentary, but I don't remember as much about the context as I'd have liked. So I'm not going to say anything on that score, and just talk about what I did and didn't enjoy about the book.

      It's written in first person, which makes the young Pip's voice kind of endearing at first, particularly his observations about what he imagines his parents to be like, from seeing their gravestones, etc. Pip does get less likeable later on, due to his great expectations, but a lot of the other characters are interesting. If one doesn't get on with Pip, I should think there's some other character one can get interested in.

      I found the characters the strongest thing in this book, while some of the writing felt like filler. Not too much so, but some. The characters, however, were strong -- strange, some of them, and others loveable. Or both. All the imagery that surrounds Miss Havisham sticks really strongly in my mind; I wanted to hug Herbert a lot; Mr Wemmick was fun, with his secret castle and his strong division between work and home. I was surprised at how fond I got of Magwitch, too, but he turns out to be a more sympathetic and sweet character than you'd expect.

      The two endings are interesting. I think I prefer the one in my edition, which I believe is the second one -- the happier one. It reads better, and less like a last minute thought, giving a bit more resolution.
    • 1/5
      I'll never understand the concept of this novel, the old lady, the boy & the girl, seriously Dickens wat is that?!

      and I'll probably never know why the hell did I have 2 take this @ school?!!!! there r 10s of novels I could think of instead of this silly hard 2 understand novel..

      whoever understands this novel, plz plz plzzzzzz explain it 2 me...
    • 5/5
      A colleague told me that this was her favourite novel, so I just had to get stuck in and read this, especially as I've loved every novel by Dickens I've read so far. I found myself feeling sympathy for all of the characters in the novel, especially in the light of Pip's gradual repentance. At times it was unputdownable, and had a brief understanding of what it must have been like to have to wait for the next instalment when it was serialised in the nineteenth century. Make sure to read Dicken's original ending and then to make up your mind which you prefer! I personally liked the Hollywood ending, but the original was probably more realistic.
    • 4/5
      A classic by Dickens, Great Expectations is the story of Pip. He is an orphan who, due to a mysterious benefactor, comes into a goodly sum of money or his “expectations”. This is written in first person and is told by an older Pip, a Pip who is not only older but wiser. It may be a rags-to-riches story, but it's not necessarily a happy story. It is a story about Pip, his harsh and cruel sister Mrs. Joe and her kind and fatherly husband Joe, an escaped convict Magwich, a beautiful but cruel girl Estella, and the corpse-like jilted bride Miss Havisham. The story centers around Pip and how, when he comes into his expectation, he becomes snobbish and unlikeable, looking down on Joe and his childhood friend, Biddy. He puts social position and class, etiquette and learning, gentility and leisure, above his friends. Eventually circumstances change (as they always do), and Pip learns a variety of lessons. I found the beginning of this novel a bit slow—though I am not sure why (maybe it was getting use to the dated language)—however I loved the last third of the novel—exciting, surprising & bittersweet. Particularly enjoyed being surprised by some of the characters—Magwich, Wemmick & Miss Havisham specifically. A 4 out of 5 stars.
    • 4/5
      This book was a great time.

      I tried to read it for years - I made it through by listening to in on my commute - but it's really really funny. This is the first Dickens books that I've really enjoyed since 'A Christmas Carol'. :)

    Book preview

    Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

    LIX

    chapteR I

    My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

    I give Pirrip as my father’s family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister,—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, Also Georgiana Wife of the Above, I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine,—who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle,—I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence.

    Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.

    Hold your noise! cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. Keep still, you little devil, or I’ll cut your throat!

    A fearful man, all in coarse gray, with a great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.

    Oh! Don’t cut my throat, sir, I pleaded in terror. Pray don’t do it, sir.

    Tell us your name! said the man. Quick!

    Pip, sir.

    Once more, said the man, staring at me. Give it mouth!

    Pip. Pip, sir.

    Show us where you live, said the man. Pint out the place!

    I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the alder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.

    The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When the church came to itself,—for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my feet,—when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling while he ate the bread ravenously.

    You young dog, said the man, licking his lips, what fat cheeks you ha’ got.

    I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong.

    Darn me if I couldn’t eat em, said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, and if I han’t half a mind to’t!

    I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn’t, and held tighter to the tombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it; partly, to keep myself from crying.

    Now lookee here! said the man. Where’s your mother?

    There, sir! said I.

    He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.

    There, sir! I timidly explained. Also Georgiana. That’s my mother.

    Oh! said he, coming back. And is that your father alonger your mother?

    Yes, sir, said I; him too; late of this parish.

    Ha! he muttered then, considering. Who d’ye live with,—supposin’ you’re kindly let to live, which I han’t made up my mind about?

    My sister, sir,—Mrs. Joe Gargery,—wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir.

    Blacksmith, eh? said he. And looked down at his leg.

    After darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his.

    Now lookee here, he said, the question being whether you’re to be let to live. You know what a file is?

    Yes, sir.

    And you know what wittles is?

    Yes, sir.

    After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a greater sense of helplessness and danger.

    You get me a file. He tilted me again. And you get me wittles. He tilted me again. You bring ’em both to me. He tilted me again. Or I’ll have your heart and liver out. He tilted me again.

    I was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both hands, and said, If you would kindly please to let me keep upright, sir, perhaps I shouldn’t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more.

    He gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped over its own weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright position on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms:—

    You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate. Now, I ain’t alone, as you may think I am. There’s a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I am a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and creep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that young man from harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I find it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what do you say?

    I said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken bits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in the morning.

    Say Lord strike you dead if you don’t! said the man.

    I said so, and he took me down.

    Now, he pursued, you remember what you’ve undertook, and you remember that young man, and you get home!

    Goo-good night, sir, I faltered.

    Much of that! said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat. I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!

    At the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his arms,—clasping himself, as if to hold himself together,—and limped towards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the nettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked in my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people, stretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his ankle and pull him in.

    When he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When I saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of my legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on again towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and picking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into the marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains were heavy or the tide was in.

    The marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped to look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not nearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long angry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the river I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the prospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered,—like an unhooped cask upon a pole,—an ugly thing when you were near it; the other, a gibbet, with some chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was limping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life, and come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a terrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their heads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I looked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of him. But now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.

    chapteR II

    My sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I, and had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbors because she had brought me up by hand. Having at that time to find out for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her to have a hard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her husband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both brought up by hand.

    She was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general impression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to have somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow,—a sort of Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.

    My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible she washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her figure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in front, that was stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful merit in herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this apron so much. Though I really see no reason why she should have worn it at all; or why, if she did wear it at all, she should not have taken it off, every day of her life.

    Joe’s forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of the dwellings in our country were,—most of them, at that time. When I ran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up, and Joe was sitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and having confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me, the moment I raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it, sitting in the chimney corner.

    Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she’s out now, making it a baker’s dozen.

    Is she?

    Yes, Pip, said Joe; and what’s worse, she’s got Tickler with her.

    At this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat round and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler was a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled frame.

    She sot down, said Joe, and she got up, and she made a grab at Tickler, and she Ram-paged out. That’s what she did, said Joe, slowly clearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at it; she Ram-paged out, Pip.

    Has she been gone long, Joe? I always treated him as a larger species of child, and as no more than my equal.

    Well, said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock, she’s been on the Ram-page, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She’s a coming! Get behind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you.

    I took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open, and finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause, and applied Tickler to its further investigation. She concluded by throwing me—I often served as a connubial missile—at Joe, who, glad to get hold of me on any terms, passed me on into the chimney and quietly fenced me up there with his great leg.

    Where have you been, you young monkey? said Mrs. Joe, stamping her foot. Tell me directly what you’ve been doing to wear me away with fret and fright and worrit, or I’d have you out of that corner if you was fifty Pips, and he was five hundred Gargerys.

    I have only been to the churchyard, said I, from my stool, crying and rubbing myself.

    Churchyard! repeated my sister. If it warn’t for me you’d have been to the churchyard long ago, and stayed there. Who brought you up by hand?

    You did, said I.

    And why did I do it, I should like to know? exclaimed my sister.

    I whimpered, I don’t know.

    I don’t! said my sister. I’d never do it again! I know that. I may truly say I’ve never had this apron of mine off since born you were. It’s bad enough to be a blacksmith’s wife (and him a Gargery) without being your mother.

    My thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at the fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the mysterious young man, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was under to commit a larceny on those sheltering premises, rose before me in the avenging coals.

    Hah! said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station. Churchyard, indeed! You may well say churchyard, you two. One of us, by the by, had not said it at all. You’ll drive me to the churchyard betwixt you, one of these days, and O, a pr-rrecious pair you’d be without me!

    As she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me over his leg, as if he were mentally casting me and himself up, and calculating what kind of pair we practically should make, under the grievous circumstances foreshadowed. After that, he sat feeling his right-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with his blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.

    My sister had a trenchant way of cutting our bread and butter for us, that never varied. First, with her left hand she jammed the loaf hard and fast against her bib,—where it sometimes got a pin into it, and sometimes a needle, which we afterwards got into our mouths. Then she took some butter (not too much) on a knife and spread it on the loaf, in an apothecary kind of way, as if she were making a plaster,—using both sides of the knife with a slapping dexterity, and trimming and moulding the butter off round the crust. Then, she gave the knife a final smart wipe on the edge of the plaster, and then sawed a very thick round off the loaf: which she finally, before separating from the loaf, hewed into two halves, of which Joe got one, and I the other.

    On the present occasion, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice. I felt that I must have something in reserve for my dreadful acquaintance, and his ally the still more dreadful young man. I knew Mrs. Joe’s housekeeping to be of the strictest kind, and that my larcenous researches might find nothing available in the safe. Therefore I resolved to put my hunk of bread and butter down the leg of my trousers.

    The effort of resolution necessary to the achievement of this purpose I found to be quite awful. It was as if I had to make up my mind to leap from the top of a high house, or plunge into a great depth of water. And it was made the more difficult by the unconscious Joe. In our already-mentioned freemasonry as fellow-sufferers, and in his good-natured companionship with me, it was our evening habit to compare the way we bit through our slices, by silently holding them up to each other’s admiration now and then,—which stimulated us to new exertions. To-night, Joe several times invited me, by the display of his fast diminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition; but he found me, each time, with my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and my untouched bread and butter on the other. At last, I desperately considered that the thing I contemplated must be done, and that it had best be done in the least improbable manner consistent with the circumstances. I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at me, and got my bread and butter down my leg.

    Joe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my loss of appetite, and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice, which he didn’t seem to enjoy. He turned it about in his mouth much longer than usual, pondering over it a good deal, and after all gulped it down like a pill. He was about to take another bite, and had just got his head on one side for a good purchase on it, when his eye fell on me, and he saw that my bread and butter was gone.

    The wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold of his bite and stared at me, were too evident to escape my sister’s observation.

    What’s the matter now? said she, smartly, as she put down her cup.

    I say, you know! muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious remonstrance. Pip, old chap! You’ll do yourself a mischief. It’ll stick somewhere. You can’t have chawed it, Pip.

    What’s the matter now? repeated my sister, more sharply than before.

    If you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I’d recommend you to do it, said Joe, all aghast. Manners is manners, but still your elth’s your elth.

    By this time, my sister was quite desperate, so she pounced on Joe, and, taking him by the two whiskers, knocked his head for a little while against the wall behind him, while I sat in the corner, looking guiltily on.

    Now, perhaps you’ll mention what’s the matter, said my sister, out of breath, you staring great stuck pig.

    Joe looked at her in a helpless way, then took a helpless bite, and looked at me again.

    You know, Pip, said Joe, solemnly, with his last bite in his cheek, and speaking in a confidential voice, as if we two were quite alone, you and me is always friends, and I’d be the last to tell upon you, any time. But such a— he moved his chair and looked about the floor between us, and then again at me—such a most oncommon Bolt as that!

    Been bolting his food, has he? cried my sister.

    You know, old chap, said Joe, looking at me, and not at Mrs. Joe, with his bite still in his cheek, I Bolted, myself, when I was your age—frequent—and as a boy I’ve been among a many Bolters; but I never see your Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it’s a mercy you ain’t Bolted dead.

    My sister made a dive at me, and fished me up by the hair, saying nothing more than the awful words, You come along and be dosed.

    Some medical beast had revived Tar-water in those days as a fine medicine, and Mrs. Joe always kept a supply of it in the cupboard; having a belief in its virtues correspondent to its nastiness. At the best of times, so much of this elixir was administered to me as a choice restorative, that I was conscious of going about, smelling like a new fence. On this particular evening the urgency of my case demanded a pint of this mixture, which was poured down my throat, for my greater comfort, while Mrs. Joe held my head under her arm, as a boot would be held in a bootjack. Joe got off with half a pint; but was made to swallow that (much to his disturbance, as he sat slowly munching and meditating before the fire), because he had had a turn. Judging from myself, I should say he certainly had a turn afterwards, if he had had none before.

    Conscience is a dreadful thing when it accuses man or boy; but when, in the case of a boy, that secret burden co-operates with another secret burden down the leg of his trousers, it is (as I can testify) a great punishment. The guilty knowledge that I was going to rob Mrs. Joe—I never thought I was going to rob Joe, for I never thought of any of the housekeeping property as his—united to the necessity of always keeping one hand on my bread and butter as I sat, or when I was ordered about the kitchen on any small errand, almost drove me out of my mind. Then, as the marsh winds made the fire glow and flare, I thought I heard the voice outside, of the man with the iron on his leg who had sworn me to secrecy, declaring that he couldn’t and wouldn’t starve until to-morrow, but must be fed now. At other times, I thought, What if the young man who was with so much difficulty restrained from imbruing his hands in me should yield to a constitutional impatience, or should mistake the time, and should think himself accredited to my heart and liver to-night, instead of to-morrow! If ever anybody’s hair stood on end with terror, mine must have done so then. But, perhaps, nobody’s ever did?

    It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day, with a copper-stick, from seven to eight by the Dutch clock. I tried it with the load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the load on his leg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the bread and butter out at my ankle, quite unmanageable. Happily I slipped away, and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.

    Hark! said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final warm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed; was that great guns, Joe?

    Ah! said Joe. There’s another conwict off.

    What does that mean, Joe? said I.

    Mrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said, snappishly, Escaped. Escaped. Administering the definition like Tar-water.

    While Mrs. Joe sat with her head bending over her needlework, I put my mouth into the forms of saying to Joe, What’s a convict? Joe put his mouth into the forms of returning such a highly elaborate answer, that I could make out nothing of it but the single word Pip.

    There was a conwict off last night, said Joe, aloud, after sunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they’re firing warning of another.

    Who’s firing? said I.

    Drat that boy, interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work, what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.

    It was not very polite to herself, I thought, to imply that I should be told lies by her even if I did ask questions. But she never was polite unless there was company.

    At this point Joe greatly augmented my curiosity by taking the utmost pains to open his mouth very wide, and to put it into the form of a word that looked to me like sulks. Therefore, I naturally pointed to Mrs. Joe, and put my mouth into the form of saying, her? But Joe wouldn’t hear of that, at all, and again opened his mouth very wide, and shook the form of a most emphatic word out of it. But I could make nothing of the word.

    Mrs. Joe, said I, as a last resort, I should like to know—if you wouldn’t much mind—where the firing comes from?

    Lord bless the boy! exclaimed my sister, as if she didn’t quite mean that but rather the contrary. From the Hulks!

    Oh-h! said I, looking at Joe. Hulks!

    Joe gave a reproachful cough, as much as to say, Well, I told you so.

    And please, what’s Hulks? said I.

    That’s the way with this boy! exclaimed my sister, pointing me out with her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me. Answer him one question, and he’ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prison-ships, right ’cross th’ meshes. We always used that name for marshes, in our country.

    I wonder who’s put into prison-ships, and why they’re put there? said I, in a general way, and with quiet desperation.

    It was too much for Mrs. Joe, who immediately rose. I tell you what, young fellow, said she, I didn’t bring you up by hand to badger people’s lives out. It would be blame to me and not praise, if I had. People are put in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do all sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking questions. Now, you get along to bed!

    I was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went up stairs in the dark, with my head tingling,—from Mrs. Joe’s thimble having played the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words,—I felt fearfully sensible of the great convenience that the hulks were handy for me. I was clearly on my way there. I had begun by asking questions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.

    Since that time, which is far enough away now, I have often thought that few people know what secrecy there is in the young under terror. No matter how unreasonable the terror, so that it be terror. I was in mortal terror of the young man who wanted my heart and liver; I was in mortal terror of my interlocutor with the iron leg; I was in mortal terror of myself, from whom an awful promise had been extracted; I had no hope of deliverance through my all-powerful sister, who repulsed me at every turn; I am afraid to think of what I might have done on requirement, in the secrecy of my terror.

    If I slept at all that night, it was only to imagine myself drifting down the river on a strong spring-tide, to the Hulks; a ghostly pirate calling out to me through a speaking-trumpet, as I passed the gibbet-station, that I had better come ashore and be hanged there at once, and not put it off. I was afraid to sleep, even if I had been inclined, for I knew that at the first faint dawn of morning I must rob the pantry. There was no doing it in the night, for there was no getting a light by easy friction then; to have got one I must have struck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very pirate himself rattling his chains.

    As soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was shot with gray, I got up and went down stairs; every board upon the way, and every crack in every board calling after me, Stop thief! and Get up, Mrs. Joe! In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied than usual, owing to the season, I was very much alarmed by a hare hanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught when my back was half turned, winking. I had no time for verification, no time for selection, no time for anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I tied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night’s slice), some brandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had secretly used for making that intoxicating fluid, Spanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away without the pie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that was put away so carefully in a covered earthen ware dish in a corner, and I found it was the pie, and I took it in the hope that it was not intended for early use, and would not be missed for some time.

    There was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I unlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe’s tools. Then I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which I had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the misty marshes.

    chapteR III

    It was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the outside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there all night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now, I saw the damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort of spiders’ webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade. On every rail and gate, wet lay clammy, and the marsh mist was so thick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our village—a direction which they never accepted, for they never came there—was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I looked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience like a phantom devoting me to the Hulks.

    The mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that instead of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me. This was very disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and dikes and banks came bursting at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly as could be, A boy with Somebody’s else’s pork pie! Stop him! The cattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes, and steaming out of their nostrils, Halloa, young thief! One black ox, with a white cravat on,—who even had to my awakened conscience something of a clerical air,—fixed me so obstinately with his eyes, and moved his blunt head round in such an accusatory manner as I moved round, that I blubbered out to him, I couldn’t help it, sir! It wasn’t for myself I took it! Upon which he put down his head, blew a cloud of smoke out of his nose, and vanished with a kick-up of his hind-legs and a flourish of his tail.

    All this time, I was getting on towards the river; but however fast I went, I couldn’t warm my feet, to which the damp cold seemed riveted, as the iron was riveted to the leg of the man I was running to meet. I knew my way to the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down there on a Sunday with Joe, and Joe, sitting on an old gun, had told me that when I was ’prentice to him, regularly bound, we would have such Larks there! However, in the confusion of the mist, I found myself at last too far to the right, and consequently had to try back along the river-side, on the bank of loose stones above the mud and the stakes that staked the tide out. Making my way along here with all despatch, I had just crossed a ditch which I knew to be very near the Battery, and had just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch, when I saw the man sitting before me. His back was towards me, and he had his arms folded, and was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.

    I thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his breakfast, in that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on the shoulder. He instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but another man!

    And yet this man was dressed in coarse gray, too, and had a great iron on his leg, and was lame, and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that the other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat broad-brimmed low-crowned felt hat on. All this I saw in a moment, for I had only a moment to see it in: he swore an oath at me, made a hit at me,—it was a round weak blow that missed me and almost knocked himself down, for it made him stumble,—and then he ran into the mist, stumbling twice as he went, and I lost him.

    It’s the young man! I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified him. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had known where it was.

    I was soon at the Battery after that, and there was the right Man,—hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had never all night left off hugging and limping,—waiting for me. He was awfully cold, to be sure. I half expected to see him drop down before my face and die of deadly cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry too, that when I handed him the file and he laid it down on the grass, it occurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my bundle. He did not turn me upside down this time to get at what I had, but left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle and emptied my pockets.

    What’s in the bottle, boy? said he.

    Brandy, said I.

    He was already handing mincemeat down his throat in the most curious manner,—more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent hurry, than a man who was eating it,—but he left off to take some of the liquor. He shivered all the while so violently, that it was quite as much as he could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his teeth, without biting it off.

    I think you have got the ague, said I.

    I’m much of your opinion, boy, said he.

    It’s bad about here, I told him. You’ve been lying out on the meshes, and they’re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too.

    I’ll eat my breakfast afore they’re the death of me, said he. I’d do that, if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is over there, directly afterwards. I’ll beat the shivers so far, I’ll bet you.

    He was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round us, and often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen. Some real or fancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the marsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly,—

    You’re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?

    No, sir! No!

    Nor giv’ no one the office to follow you?

    No!

    Well, said he, I believe you. You’d be but a fierce young hound indeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched warmint hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!

    Something clicked in his throat as if he had works in him like a clock, and was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes.

    Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down upon the pie, I made bold to say, I am glad you enjoy it.

    Did you speak?

    I said I was glad you enjoyed it.

    Thankee, my boy. I do.

    I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now noticed a decided similarity between the dog’s way of eating, and the man’s. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger in every direction of somebody’s coming to take the pie away. He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to appreciate it comfortably I thought, or to have anybody to dine with him, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In all of which particulars he was very like the dog.

    I am afraid you won’t leave any of it for him, said I, timidly; after a silence during which I had hesitated as to the politeness of making the remark. There’s no more to be got where that came from. It was the certainty of this fact that impelled me to offer the hint.

    Leave any for him? Who’s him? said my friend, stopping in his crunching of pie-crust.

    The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you.

    Oh ah! he returned, with something like a gruff laugh. Him? Yes, yes! He don’t want no wittles.

    I thought he looked as if he did, said I.

    The man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and the greatest surprise.

    Looked? When?

    Just now.

    Where?

    Yonder, said I, pointing; over there, where I found him nodding asleep, and thought it was you.

    He held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his first idea about cutting my throat had revived.

    Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat, I explained, trembling; and—and—I was very anxious to put this delicately—and with—the same reason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn’t you hear the cannon last night?

    Then there was firing! he said to himself.

    I wonder you shouldn’t have been sure of that, I returned, for we heard it up at home, and that’s farther away, and we were shut in besides.

    Why, see now! said he. When a man’s alone on these flats, with a light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears nothin’ all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees the soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried afore, closing in round him. Hears his number called, hears himself challenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders ‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!’ and is laid hands on—and there’s nothin’! Why, if I see one pursuing party last night—coming up in order, Damn ’em, with their tramp, tramp—I see a hundred. And as to firing! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad day,—But this man; he had said all the rest, as if he had forgotten my being there; did you notice anything in him?

    He had a badly bruised face, said I, recalling what I hardly knew I knew.

    Not here? exclaimed the man, striking his left cheek mercilessly, with the flat of his hand.

    Yes, there!

    Where is he? He crammed what little food was left, into the breast of his gray jacket. Show me the way he went. I’ll pull him down, like a bloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file, boy.

    I indicated in what direction the mist had shrouded the other man, and he looked up at it for an instant. But he was down on the rank wet grass, filing at his iron like a madman, and not minding me or minding his own leg, which had an old chafe upon it and was bloody, but which he handled as roughly as if it had no more feeling in it than the file. I was very much afraid of him again, now that he had worked himself into this fierce hurry, and I was likewise very much afraid of keeping away from home any longer. I told him I must go, but he took no notice, so I thought the best thing I could do was to slip off. The last I saw of him, his head was bent over his knee and he was working hard at his fetter, muttering impatient imprecations at it and at his leg. The last I heard of him, I stopped in the mist to listen, and the file was still going.

    chapteR IV

    I fully expected to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me up. But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet been made of the robbery. Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in getting the house ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon the kitchen doorstep to keep him out of the dust-pan,—an article into which his destiny always led him, sooner or later, when my sister was vigorously reaping the floors of her establishment.

    And where the deuce ha’ you been? was Mrs. Joe’s Christmas salutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.

    I said I had been down to hear the Carols. Ah! well! observed Mrs. Joe. You might ha’ done worse. Not a doubt of that I thought.

    Perhaps if I warn’t a blacksmith’s wife, and (what’s the same thing) a slave with her apron never off, I should have been to hear the Carols, said Mrs. Joe. I’m rather partial to Carols, myself, and that’s the best of reasons for my never hearing any.

    Joe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dustpan had retired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a conciliatory air, when Mrs. Joe darted a look at him, and, when her eyes were withdrawn, secretly crossed his two forefingers, and exhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs. Joe was in a cross temper. This was so much her normal state, that Joe and I would often, for weeks together, be, as to our fingers, like monumental Crusaders as to their legs.

    We were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had been made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not being missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive arrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of breakfast; for I ain’t, said Mrs. Joe,—I ain’t a going to have no formal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I’ve got before me, I promise you!

    So, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on a forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of milk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the dresser. In the meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white curtains up, and tacked a new flowered flounce across the wide chimney to replace the old one, and uncovered the little state parlor across the passage, which was never uncovered at any other time, but passed the rest of the year in a cool haze of silver paper, which even extended to the four little white crockery poodles on the mantel-shelf, each with a black nose and a basket of flowers in his mouth, and each the counterpart of the other. Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite art of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than dirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some people do the same by their religion.

    My sister, having so much to do, was going to church vicariously, that is to say, Joe and I were going. In his working-clothes, Joe was a well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else. Nothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and everything that he wore then grazed him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were going, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young offender whom an Accoucheur Policeman had taken up (on my birthday) and delivered over to her, to be dealt with according to the outraged majesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on being born in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality, and against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I was taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make them like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the free use of my limbs.

    Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs. Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived the idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman said, Ye are now to declare it! would be the time for me to rise and propose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure that I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to this extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.

    Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble the wheelwright and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe’s uncle, but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in the nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was half-past one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.

    The time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and the company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large shining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud of; indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could only give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he himself confessed that if the Church was thrown open, meaning to competition, he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church not being thrown open, he was, as I have said, our clerk. But he punished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm,—always giving the whole verse,—he looked all round the congregation first, as much as to say, You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your opinion of this style!

    I opened the door to the company,—making believe that it was a habit of ours to open that door,—and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle, next to Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B. I was not allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.

    Mrs. Joe, said Uncle Pumblechook, a large hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been all but choked, and had that moment come to, I have brought you as the compliments of the season—I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine—and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine.

    Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with exactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells. Every Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she now replied, O, Un—cle Pum-ble—chook! This is kind! Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he now retorted, It’s no more than your merits. And now are you all bobbish, and how’s Sixpennorth of halfpence? meaning me.

    We dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts and oranges and apples to the parlor; which was a change very like Joe’s change from his working-clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister was uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally more gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I remember Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue, who held a conventionally juvenile position, because she had married Mr. Hubble,—I don’t know at what remote period,—when she was much younger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough, high-shouldered, stooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs extraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some miles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.

    Among this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn’t robbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in at an acute angle of the tablecloth, with the table in my chest, and the Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to speak (I didn’t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the scaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason to be vain. No; I should not have minded that, if they would only have left me alone. But they wouldn’t leave me alone. They seemed to think the opportunity lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me, every now and then, and stick the point into me. I might have been an unfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched up by these moral goads.

    It began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle said grace with theatrical declamation,—as it now appears to me, something like a religious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third,—and ended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful. Upon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low reproachful voice, Do you hear that? Be grateful.

    Especially, said Mr. Pumblechook, be grateful, boy, to them which brought you up by hand.

    Mrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, Why is it that the young are never grateful? This moral mystery seemed too much for the company until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying, Naterally wicious. Everybody then murmured True! and looked at me in a particularly unpleasant and personal manner.

    Joe’s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when there was company than when there was none. But he always aided and comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being plenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint.

    A little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with some severity, and intimated—in the usual hypothetical case of the Church being thrown open—what kind of sermon he would have given them. After favoring them with some heads of that discourse, he remarked that he considered the subject of the day’s homily, ill chosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many subjects going about.

    True again, said Uncle Pumblechook. You’ve hit it, sir! Plenty of subjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their tails. That’s what’s wanted. A man needn’t go far to find a subject, if he’s ready with his salt-box. Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short interval of reflection, Look at Pork alone. There’s a subject! If you want a subject, look at Pork!

    True, sir. Many a moral for the young, returned Mr. Wopsle,—and I knew he was going to lug me in, before he said it; might be deduced from that text.

    (You listen to this, said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.)

    Joe gave me some more gravy.

    Swine, pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his fork at

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