CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870) is still one of the most popular authors of the 19th century.
When still a child, he had to work as a drudge in a London blacking factory, while his father was in a debtors’ prison. For a few years he was a lawyer’s clerk and then a newspaper reporter.
Most of his novels appeared first of all as serials. Their appeal was largely due to the memorable characters he created, but underneath the humour there often lay the darker theme of social evils in Victorian times.
This is a short excerpt from David Copperfield, the book which contains many autobiographical incidents and characters.
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I AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME
We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-handkerchief
was quite wet through, when the carrier stopped short. Looking out
to ascertain for what, I saw to MY amazement Peggotty burst from
a hedge and climb into the cart. She took me in both her arms, and
squeezed me to her stays until the pressure on my nose was
extremely painful, though I never thought of that till afterwards
when I found it very tender. Not a single word did Peggotty speak.
Releasing one of her arms, she put it down in her pocket to the
elbow, and brought out some paper bags of cakes which she crammed into my pockets, and a purse which she put into my hand, but not one word did she say. After another and a final squeeze with both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away; and, my belief is, and has always been, without a solitary button on her gown. I picked up one of several that were rolling about, and treasured it as a keepsake for a long time.
The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were coming back.
I shook my head, and said I thought not.
Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to
think it was of no use crying any more, especially as neither
Roderick Random nor that Captain in the Royal British Navy had
ever cried, that I could remember, in trying situations. The
carrier, seeing me in this resolution, proposed that my pocket-
handkerchief should be spread upon the horse's back to dry. I
thanked him, and assented; and particularly small it looked, under
those circumstances.
I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather
purse with a snap, and had three bright shillings in it, which
Peggotty had evidently polished up with whitening for my greater
delight. But its most precious contents were two half-crowns
folded together in a bit of paper on which was written in my
mother's hand, “For Davy, with my love.”
I was so overcome by this, that I asked the carrier to be so good as to reach me my pocket-handkerchief again; but he said he thought I had better do without it, and I thought I really had, so I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stopped myself.
For good, too; though, in consequence of my previous emotions, I
was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob.
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After we had jogged on for some little time, I asked the carrier if he was going all the way.
“All the way where?” inquired the carrier.
“There,” I said.
“Where's there?” inquired the carrier.
“Near London,” I said.
“Why that horse,” said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him
out, “would be deader than pork afore he got over half the ground.”
“Are you only going to Yarmouth then?” I asked.
“That's about it,” said the carrier. “And there I shall take you
to the stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that'll take you to -
wherever it is.”
As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr.
Barkis) to say - he being, as I observed in a former chapter, of a
phlegmatic temperament, and not at all conversational - I offered
him a cake as a mark of attention, which he ate at one gulp,
exactly like an elephant, and which made no more impression on his
big face than it would have done on an elephant's.
“Did SHE make 'em, now?” said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward,
in his slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an arm on
each knee.
“Peggotty, do you mean, sir?”
“Ah!” said Mr. Barkis. “Her.”
“Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking.”
“Do she though?” said Mr. Barkis.
He made up his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn't whistle. He
sat looking at the horse's ears, as if he saw something new there;
and sat so, for a considerable time.
By and by, he said: “No sweethearts, I b'lieve?”
“Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?” For I thought he wanted
something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that
description of refreshment.
“Hearts,” said Mr. Barkis. “Sweet hearts; no person walks with
her!”
“With Peggotty?”
“Ah!” he said. “Her.”
“Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart.”
“Didn't she, though!” said Mr. Barkis.
Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn't whistle,
but sat looking at the horse's ears.
“So she makes,” said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of
reflection, “all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, do
she?”
I replied that such was the fact.
“Well. I'll tell you what,” said Mr. Barkis. “P'raps you might be
writin' to her?”
“I shall certainly write to her,” I rejoined.
“Ah!” he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. “Well! If you
was writin' to her, p'raps you'd recollect to say that Barkis was
willin', would you?”
“That Barkis is willing,” I repeated innocently. “Is that all the
message?”
“Ye-es,” he said, considering. “Ye-es. Barkis is willin'.”
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Charles Dickens is buried in Poets Corner of Westminster Abbey. The inscription on his tomb reads: “He was a sympathiser to the poor, the suffering, and the oppressed, and by his death one of England’s greatest writers is lost to the world.”
The complete David Copperfield can be read online at -
http://www.bartleby.com/307/
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Next Friday on A TOUCH OF CULTURE - What HAVE they done to Johann Sebastian?
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