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honestest-helping woman, Mas’r Davy, as ever draw’d the breath of life.

I have never know’d her to be lone and lorn, for a single minute,

not even when the colony was all afore us, and we was new to it. And

thinking of the old ‘un is a thing she never done, I do assure you,

since she left England!’

‘Now, last, not least, Mr. Micawber,’ said I. ‘He has paid off every

obligation he incurred here--even to Traddles’s bill, you remember my

dear Agnes--and therefore we may take it for granted that he is doing

well. But what is the latest news of him?’

Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his breast-pocket, and

produced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from which he took out, with much

care, a little odd-looking newspaper.

‘You are to understan’, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, ‘as we have left the

Bush now, being so well to do; and have gone right away round to Port

Middlebay Harbour, wheer theer’s what we call a town.’

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

‘Bless you, yes,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and turned to with a will. I never

wish to meet a better gen’l’man for turning to with a will. I’ve seen

that theer bald head of his a perspiring in the sun, Mas’r Davy, till I

a’most thowt it would have melted away. And now he’s a Magistrate.’

‘A Magistrate, eh?’ said I.

Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the newspaper, where I

read aloud as follows, from the Port Middlebay Times:

‘The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist and townsman,

WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Port Middlebay District Magistrate, came

off yesterday in the large room of the Hotel, which was crowded to

suffocation. It is estimated that not fewer than forty-seven persons

must have been accommodated with dinner at one time, exclusive of the

company in the passage and on the stairs. The beauty, fashion, and

exclusiveness of Port Middlebay, flocked to do honour to one so

deservedly esteemed, so highly talented, and so widely popular. Doctor

Mell (of Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) presided,

and on his right sat the distinguished guest. After the removal of the

cloth, and the singing of Non Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which

we were at no loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted

amateur, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR), the usual loyal and

patriotic toasts were severally given and rapturously received. Doctor

Mell, in a speech replete with feeling, then proposed “Our distinguished

Guest, the ornament of our town. May he never leave us but to better

himself, and may his success among us be such as to render his bettering

himself impossible!” The cheering with which the toast was received

defies description. Again and again it rose and fell, like the waves

of ocean. At length all was hushed, and WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE,

presented himself to return thanks. Far be it from us, in the present

comparatively imperfect state of the resources of our establishment,

to endeavour to follow our distinguished townsman through the

smoothly-flowing periods of his polished and highly-ornate address!

Suffice it to observe, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and that

those passages in which he more particularly traced his own successful

career to its source, and warned the younger portion of his auditory

from the shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which they were

unable to liquidate, brought a tear into the manliest eye present. The

remaining toasts were DOCTOR MELL; Mrs. MICAWBER (who gracefully bowed

her acknowledgements from the side-door, where a galaxy of beauty was

elevated on chairs, at once to witness and adorn the gratifying scene),

Mrs. RIDGER BEGS (late Miss Micawber); Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBER,

ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (who convulsed the assembly by humorously remarking that

he found himself unable to return thanks in a speech, but would do so,

with their permission, in a song); Mrs. MICAWBER’S FAMILY (well known,

it is needless to remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At the

conclusion of the proceedings the tables were cleared as if by art-magic

for dancing. Among the votaries of TERPSICHORE, who disported themselves

until Sol gave warning for departure, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior,

and the lovely and accomplished Miss Helena, fourth daughter of Doctor

Mell, were particularly remarkable.’

I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mell, pleased to have

discovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr. Mell, formerly poor

pinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate, when Mr. Peggotty pointing

to another part of the paper, my eyes rested on my own name, and I read

thus:

‘TO DAVID COPPERFIELD, ESQUIRE,

‘THE EMINENT AUTHOR.

‘My Dear Sir,

‘Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of ocularly perusing the

lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations of a considerable portion

of the civilized world.

‘But, my dear Sir, though estranged (by the force of circumstances over

which I have had no control) from the personal society of the friend and

companion of my youth, I have not been unmindful of his soaring flight.

Nor have I been debarred,

Though seas between us braid ha’ roared,

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

before us.

‘I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from this place of an

individual whom we mutually respect and esteem, without, my dear Sir,

taking this public opportunity of thanking you, on my own behalf, and,

I may undertake to add, on that of the whole of the Inhabitants of Port

Middlebay, for the gratification of which you are the ministering agent.

‘Go on, my dear Sir! You are not unknown here, you are not

unappreciated. Though “remote”, we are neither “unfriended”,

“melancholy”, nor (I may add) “slow”. Go on, my dear Sir, in your Eagle

course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire to watch

it, with delight, with entertainment, with instruction!

‘Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of the globe,

will ever be found, while it has light and life,

‘The

‘Eye

‘Appertaining to

‘WILKINS MICAWBER,

‘Magistrate.’

I found, on glancing at the remaining contents of the newspaper, that

Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed correspondent of that journal.

There was another letter from him in the same paper, touching a bridge;

there was an advertisement of a collection of similar letters by him, to

be shortly republished, in a neat volume, ‘with considerable additions’;

and, unless I am very much mistaken, the Leading Article was his also.

We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other evenings while Mr.

Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us during the whole term of his

stay,--which, I think, was something less than a month,--and his sister

and my aunt came to London to see him. Agnes and I parted from him

aboard-ship, when he sailed; and we shall never part from him more, on

earth.

But before he left, he went with me to Yarmouth, to see a little tablet

I had put up in the churchyard to the memory of Ham. While I was copying

the plain inscription for him at his request, I saw him stoop, and

gather a tuft of grass from the grave and a little earth.

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

Davy.’

CHAPTER 64. A LAST RETROSPECT

And now my written story ends. I look back, once more--for the last

time--before I close these leaves.

I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life.

I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of

many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on.

What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these;

all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question!

Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four-score

years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a

stretch in winter weather.

Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in

spectacles, accustomed to do needle-work at night very close to the

lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a

yard-measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St.

Paul’s upon the lid.

The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days,

when I wondered why the birds didn’t peck her in preference to apples,

are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole

neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still);

but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket

nutmeg-grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching

at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour

at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt’s old disappointment is set

right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora

(the next in order) says she spoils her.

There is something bulky in Peggotty’s pocket. It is nothing smaller

than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by

this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which

Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very

curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile

stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of

Sheffield.

Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant

kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there

are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods

and winks, ‘Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the

Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt’s the most

extraordinary woman in the world, sir!’

Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me

a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty,

feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the

mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered

woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say.

‘Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman’s name.’

Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, ‘Mr. Copperfield.’

‘I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I

hope Time will be good to you.’

Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids

her look again, tries to rouse her.

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

Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans.

Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, ‘Rosa, come to me. He is

dead!’ Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels

with her; now fiercely telling her, ‘I loved him better than you ever

did!’--now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus

I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away,

from year to year.

What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this,

married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of ears? Can

this be Julia Mills?

Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry

cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman

in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin

in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never

sings Affection’s Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Croesus,

who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in

money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her

better in the Desert of Sahara.

Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately

house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no

green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower.

What Julia calls ‘society’, I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his

Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me

of the Doctor as ‘so charmingly antique’. But when society is the name

for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is

professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard

mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of

Sahara, and had better find the way out.

And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary

(somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also

the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so

influential as in days of yore!

Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair

(where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant

friction of his lawyer’s-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old

Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as

I look around me:

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

‘You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days,

too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?’

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

then!’

‘At all events,’ says Traddles, ‘if I ever am one--’ ‘Why, you know you

will be.’

‘Well, my dear Copperfield, WHEN I am one, I shall tell the story, as I

said I would.’

We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with

Traddles. It is Sophy’s birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses

to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.

‘I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most

at heart. There’s the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four

hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the

very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars

and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably;

there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house

for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler’s decease; and all of them

happy.’

‘Except--’ I suggest.

‘Except the Beauty,’ says Traddles. ‘Yes. It was very unfortunate that