CHAPTER LXIII
A Visitor
WHAT I HAVE PURPOSED TO RECORD IS NEARLY
FINISHED, but there is yet an incident conspicuous in my memory, on
which it often rests with delight, and, without which, one thread
in the web I have spun would have a ravelled end.
I had advanced in fame and fortune, my domestic joy
was perfect, I had been married ten happy years. Agnes and I were
sitting by the fire, in our house in London, one night in spring,
and three of our children were playing in the room, when I was told
that a stranger wished to see me.
He had been asked if he came on business, and had
answered no, he had come for the pleasure of seeing me, and had
come a long way. He was an old man, my servant said, and looked
like a farmer.
As this sounded mysterious to the children, and
moreover was like the beginning of a favourite story Agnes used to
tell them, introductory to the arrival of a wicked old Fairy in a
cloak who hated everybody, it produced some commotion. One of our
boys laid his head in his mother’s lap to be out of harm’s way, and
little Agnes (our eldest child) left her doll in a chair to
represent her, and thrust out her little heap of golden curls from
between the window-curtains, to see what happened next.
“Let him come in here!” said I.
There soon appeared, pausing in the dark doorway as
he entered, a hale, grey-haired old man. Little Agnes, attracted by
his looks, had run to bring him in, and I had not yet clearly seen
his face, when my wife, starting up, cried out to me, in a pleased
and agitated voice, that it was Mr. Peggotty!
It was Mr. Peggotty. An old man now, but in a
ruddy, hearty, strong old age. When our first emotion was over, and
he sat before the fire with the children on his knees, and the
blaze shining on his face, he looked, to me, as vigorous and
robust, withal as handsome, an old man, as ever I had seen.
“Mas‘r Davy,” said he. And the old name in the old
tone fell so naturally on my earl “Mas’r Davy, ‘tis a joyful hour
as I see you, once more, ’long with your own trew wife!”
“A joyful hour indeed, old friend!” cried I.
“And these heer pretty ones,” said Mr. Peggotty.
“To look at these heer flowers! Why Mas‘r Davy, you was but the
heighth of the littlest of these, when I first see you! When Em’ly
warn’t no bigger, and our poor lad were but a lad!”
“Time has changed me more than it has changed you
since then,” said I. “But let these dear rogues go to bed, and, as
no house in England but this must hold you, tell me where to send
for your luggage (is the old black bag among it, that went so far,
I wonder!), and then, over a glass of Yarmouth grog, we will have
the tidings of ten years!”
“Are you alone?” asked Agnes.
“Yes, ma‘am,” he said, kissing her hand, “quite
alone.”
We sat him between us, not knowing how to give him
welcome enough, and as I began to listen to his old familiar voice,
I could have fancied he was still pursuing, his long journey in
search of his darling niece.
“It’s a mort of water,” said Mr. Peggotty, “fur to
come across, and on‘y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water
(’specially when ‘tis salt) comes nat’ral to me, and friends is
dear, and I am heer.—Which is verse,” said Mr. Peggotty, surprised
to find it out, “though I hadn’t such intentions.”
“Are you going back those many thousand miles, so
soon?” asked Agnes.
“Yes, ma‘am,” he returned. “I giv the promise to
Em’ly, afore I come away. You see, I doen’t grow younger as the
years comes round, and if I hadn’t sailed as ‘twas, most like I
shouldn’t never have done’t. And it’s allus been on my mind, as I
must come and see Mas’r Davy and your own sweet blooming
self, in your wedded happiness, afore I got to be too old.”
He looked at us as if he could never feast his eyes
on us sufficiently. Agnes laughingly put back some scattered locks
of his grey hair, that he might see us better.
“And now tell us,” said I, “everything relating to
your fortunes.”
“Our fortuns, Mas‘r Davy,” he rejoined, “is soon
told. We haven’t fared nohows, but fared to thrive. We’ve allus
thrived. We’ve worked as we ought to’t, and maybe we lived a leetle
hard at first or so, but we have allus thrived. What with
sheep-farming, and what with stock-farming, and what with one thing
and what with t‘other, we are as well to do, as well could be.
Theer’s been kiender a blessing fell upon us,” said Mr. Peggotty,
reverentially inclining his head, “and we’ve done nowt but prosper.
That is, in the long run. If not yesterday, why then today. If not
today, why then tomorrow.”
“And Emily?” said Agnes and I, both together.
“Em‘ly,” said he, “arter you left her, ma’am—and I
never heerd her saying of her prayers at night, t‘other side the
canvas screen, when we was settled in the Bush, but what I heerd
your name—and arter she and me lost sight of Mas’r Davy, that theer
shining sundown—was that low, at first, that, if she had know’d
then what Mas‘r Davy kep from us so kind and thowtful, ’tis my
opinion she’d have drooped away. But theer was some poor folks
aboard as had illness among ‘em, and she took care of them, and
theer was the children in our company, and she took care of them,
and so she got to be busy, and to be doing good, and that helped
her.”
“When did she first hear of it?” I asked.
“I kep it from her arter I heerd on‘t,” said Mr.
Peggotty, “going on nigh a year. We was living then in a solitary
place, but among the beautifullest trees, and with the roses
a-covering our Bein’ to the roof. Theer come along one day, when I
was out a-working on the land, a traveller from our own Norfolk or
Suffolk in England (I doen’t rightly mind which), and of course we
took him in, and giv him to eat and drink, and made him welcome. We
all do that, all the colony over. He’d got an old newspaper with
him, and some other account in print of the storm. That’s how she
know’d it. When I come home at night, I found she know’d it.”
He dropped his voice as he said these words, and
the gravity I so well remembered overspread his face.
“Did it change her much?” we asked.
“Aye, for a good long time,” he said, shaking his
head, “if not to this present hour. But I think the solitoode done
her good. And she had a deal to mind in the way of poultry and the
like, and minded of it, and come through. I wonder,” he said
thoughtfully, “if you could see my Em‘ly now, Mas’r Davy, whether
you’d know her!”
“Is she so altered?” I inquired.
“I doen’t know. I see her ev‘ry day, and doen’t
know, but, odd-times, I have thowt so. A slight figure,” said Mr.
Peggotty, looking at the fire, “kiender worn, soft, sorrowful, blue
eyes, a delicate face, a pritty head, leaning a little down, a
quiet voice and way—timid a’most. That’s Em‘ly!”
We silently observed him as he sat, still looking
at the fire.
“Some thinks,” he said, “as her affection was
ill-bestowed, some, as her marriage was broke off by death. No one
knows how ‘tis. She might have married well a mort of times, ’but,
Uncle,‘ she says to me, ’that’s gone for ever.‘ Cheerful along with
me, retired when others is by, fond of going any distance fur to
teach a child, or fur to tend a sick person, or fur to do some
kindness tow’rds a young girl’s wedding (and she’s done a-many, but
has never seen one), fondly loving of her uncle, patient, liked by
young and old, sowt out by all that has any trouble. That’s
Em‘ly!”
He drew his hand across his face, and with a
half-suppressed sigh looked up from the fire.
“Is Martha with you yet?” I asked.
“Martha,” he replied, “got married, Mas‘r Davy, in
the second year. A young man, a farm-labourer, as come by us on his
way to market with his mas’r’s drays—a journey of over five hundred
mile, theer and back—made offers fur to take her fur his wife
(wives is very scarce theer), and then to set up fur their two
selves in the Bush. She spoke to me fur to tell him her trew story.
I did. They was married, and they live fower hundred mile away from
any voices but their own and the singing birds.”
“Mrs. Gummidge?” I suggested.
It was a pleasant key to touch, for Mr. Peggotty
suddenly burst into a roar of laughter, and rubbed his hands up and
down his legs, as he had been accustomed to do when he enjoyed
himself in the long-shipwrecked boat.
“Would you believe it!” he said. “Why, someun even
made offers fur to marry her! If a ship’s cook that was
turning settler, Mas‘r Davy, didn’t make offers fur to marry Missis
Gummidge, I’m Gormed—and I can’t say no fairer than that!”
I never saw Agnes laugh so. This sudden ecstasy on
the part of Mr. Peggotty was so delightful to her, that she could
not leave off laughing, and the more she laughed the more she made
me laugh, and the greater Mr. Peggotty’s ecstasy became, and the
more he rubbed his legs.
“And what did Mrs. Gummidge say?” I asked, when I
was grave enough.
“If you’ll believe me,” returned Mr. Peggotty,
“Missis Gummidge, ‘stead of saying ’thank you, rm much obleeged to
you, I ain’t a-going fur to change my condition at my time of
life,‘ up’d with a bucket as was standing by, and laid it over that
theer ship’s cook’s head till he sung out fur help, and I went in
and reskied of him.”
Mr. Peggotty burst into a great roar of laughter,
and Agnes and I both kept him company.
“But I must say this for the good creetur,” he
resumed, wiping his face when we were quite exhausted, “she has
been all she said she’d be-to us, and more. She’s the willingest,
the trewest, the honestest-helping woman, Mas‘r Davy, as ever
draw’d the breath of life. I have never know’d her to be lone and
lorn, for a single minute, not even when the colony was all afore
us, and we was new to it. And thinking of the old ’un is a thing
she never done, I do assure you, since she left England!”
“Now, last, not least, Mr. Micawber,” said I. “He
has paid off every obligation he incurred here—even to Traddles’s
bill, you remember, my dear Agnes—and therefore we may take it for
granted that he is doing well But what is the latest news of
him?”
Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his
breast-pocket, and produced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from which
he took out, with much care, a little odd-looking newspaper.
“You are to understan‘, Mas’r Davy,” said he, “as
we have left the Bush now, being so well-to-do, and have gone right
away round to Port Middlebay Harbour, wheer theer’s what we call a
town.”
“Mr. Micawber was in the Bush near you?” said I.
“Bless you, yes,” said Mr. Peggotty, “and turned to with a wilL I
never wish to meet a better genl‘man for turning to, with a wilL
I’ve seen that theer bald head of his, a-perspiring in the sun,
Mas’r Davy, till I a‘most thowt it would have melted away. And now
he’s a Magistrate.”
“A Magistrate, eh?” said I.
Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the
newspaper, where I read aloud as follows, from the “Port Middlebay
Times”:
The public dinner to our distinguished
fellow-colonist and townsman, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Port
Middlebay District Magistrate, came off yesterday in the large room
of the Hotel, which was crowded to suffocation. It is estimated
that not fewer than forty-seven persons must have been accommodated
with dinner at one time, exclusive of the company in the passage
and on the stairs. The beauty, fashion, and exclusiveness of Port
Middlebay, flocked to do honour to one so deservedly esteemed, so
highly talented, and so widely popular. Doctor Mell (of Colonial
Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) presided, and on his
right sat the distinguished guest. After the removal of the cloth,
and the singing of Non Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which we
were at no loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted
amateur, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR), the usual loyal and
patriotic toasts were severally given and rapturously received. Dr.
Mell, in a speech replete with feeling, then proposed ‘Our
distinguished Guest, the ornament of our town. May he never leave
us but to better himself, and may his success among us be such as
to render his bettering himself impossible!’ The cheering with
which the toast was received defies description. Again and again it
rose and fell, like the waves of ocean. At length all was hushed,
and WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, presented himself to return thanks.
Far be it from us, in the present comparatively imperfect state of
the resources of our establishment to endeavour to follow our
distinguished townsman through the smoothly flowing periods of his
polished and highly ornate address! Suffice it to observe that it
was a masterpiece of eloquence, and that those passages in which he
more particularly traced his own successful career to its source,
and warned the younger portion of his auditory from the shoals of
ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which they were unable to
liquidate, brought a tear into the manliest eye present. The
remaining toasts were DOCTOR MELL, MRS. MICAWBER (who gracefully
bowed her acknowledgments from the side-door, where a galaxy of
beauty was elevated on chairs, at once to witness and adorn the
gratifying scene), MRS. RIDGER BEGS (late Miss Micawber), MRS.
MELL, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (who convulsed the assembly
by humorously remarking that he found himself unable to return
thanks in a speech, but would do so, with their permission, in a
song), MRS. MICAWBER’S FAMILY (well-known, it is needless to
remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At the
conclusion of the proceedings the tables were cleared as if by
art-magic for dancing. Among the votaries of TERPSICHORE, who
disported themselves until Sol gave warning for departure, Wilkins
Micawber, Esquire, Junior, and the lovely and accomplished Miss
Helena, fourth daughter of Doctor Mell, were particularly
remarkable.“
I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mell,
pleased to have discovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr.
Mell, formerly poor pinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate, when
Mr. Peggotty pointing to another part of the paper, my eyes rested
on my own name, and I read thus:
“TO DAVID COPPERFIELD, ESQUIRE,
”THE EMINENT AUTHOR.
”THE EMINENT AUTHOR.
“MY DEAR SIR,
“Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of
ocularly perusing the lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations
of a considerable portion of the civilized world.
“But, my dear sir, though estranged (by the force
of circumstances over which I have had no control) from the
personal society of the friend and companion of my youth, I have
not been unmindful of his soaring flight. Nor have I been debarred,
Though seas between us braid ha’ roared,
(BURNS) from participating in the intellectual
feasts he has spread before us.
“I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from
this place of an individual whom we mutually respect and esteem,
without, my dear sir, taking this public opportunity of thanking
you, on my own behalf, and, I may undertake to add, on that of the
whole of the Inhabitants of Port Middlebay, for the gratification
of which you are the ministering agent.
“Go on, my dear sir! You are not unknown here, you
are not unappreciated. Though ‘remote,’ we are neither ‘un-
friended,’ ‘melancholy,’ nor (I may add) ‘slow.’ Go on, my dear
sir, in your Eagle course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at
least aspire to watch it, with delight, with entertainment, with
instruction!
“Among the eyes elevated towards you from this
portion of the globe, will ever be found, while it has light and
life,
“The
”Eye
“Appertaining to
”WILKINS MICAWDER,
“Magistrate.”
”Eye
“Appertaining to
”WILKINS MICAWDER,
“Magistrate.”
I found, on glancing at the remaining contents of
the newspaper, that Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed
correspondent of that Journal. There was another letter from him in
the same paper, touching a bridge; there was an advertisement of a
collection of similar letters by him, to be shortly republished, in
a neat volume, “with considerable additions,” and, unless I am very
much mistaken, the Leading Article was his also.
We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other
evenings while Mr. Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us
during the whole term of his stay—which, I think, was something
less than a month—and his sister and my aunt came to London to see
him. Agnes and I parted from him aboard-ship, when he sailed, and
we shall never part from him more, on earth.
But before he left, he went with me to Yarmouth, to
see a little tablet I had put up in the churchyard to the memory of
Ham. While I was copying the plain inscription for him at his
request, I saw him stoop, and gather a tuft of grass from the
grave, and a little earth.
“For Em‘ly,” he said, as he put it in his breast.
“I promised, Mas’r Davy.”