CHAPTER 61. I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS

For a time--at all events until my book should be completed, which would

be the work of several months--I took up my abode in my aunt’s house at

Dover; and there, sitting in the window from which I had looked out at

the moon upon the sea, when that roof first gave me shelter, I quietly

pursued my task.

In pursuance of my intention of referring to my own fictions only when

their course should incidentally connect itself with the progress of my

story, I do not enter on the aspirations, the delights, anxieties, and

triumphs of my art. That I truly devoted myself to it with my strongest

earnestness, and bestowed upon it every energy of my soul, I have

already said. If the books I have written be of any worth, they will

supply the rest. I shall otherwise have written to poor purpose, and the

rest will be of interest to no one.

Occasionally, I went to London; to lose myself in the swarm of life

there, or to consult with Traddles on some business point. He had

managed for me, in my absence, with the soundest judgement; and my

worldly affairs were prospering. As my notoriety began to bring upon

me an enormous quantity of letters from people of whom I had no

knowledge--chiefly about nothing, and extremely difficult to answer--I

agreed with Traddles to have my name painted up on his door. There, the

devoted postman on that beat delivered bushels of letters for me; and

there, at intervals, I laboured through them, like a Home Secretary of

State without the salary.

Among this correspondence, there dropped in, every now and then, an

obliging proposal from one of the numerous outsiders always lurking

about the Commons, to practise under cover of my name (if I would take

the necessary steps remaining to make a proctor of myself), and pay me

a percentage on the profits. But I declined these offers; being already

aware that there were plenty of such covert practitioners in existence,

and considering the Commons quite bad enough, without my doing anything

to make it worse.

The girls had gone home, when my name burst into bloom on Traddles’s

door; and the sharp boy looked, all day, as if he had never heard of

Sophy, shut up in a back room, glancing down from her work into a sooty

little strip of garden with a pump in it. But there I always found her,

the same bright housewife; often humming her Devonshire ballads when no

strange foot was coming up the stairs, and blunting the sharp boy in his

official closet with melody.

I wondered, at first, why I so often found Sophy writing in a copy-book;

and why she always shut it up when I appeared, and hurried it into the

table-drawer. But the secret soon came out. One day, Traddles (who had

just come home through the drizzling sleet from Court) took a paper out

of his desk, and asked me what I thought of that handwriting?

‘Oh, DON’T, Tom!’ cried Sophy, who was warming his slippers before the

fire.

‘My dear,’ returned Tom, in a delighted state, ‘why not? What do you say

to that writing, Copperfield?’

‘It’s extraordinarily legal and formal,’ said I. ‘I don’t think I ever

saw such a stiff hand.’

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

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

Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me that it was

Sophy’s writing; that Sophy had vowed and declared he would need a

copying-clerk soon, and she would be that clerk; that she had acquired

this hand from a pattern; and that she could throw off--I forget how

many folios an hour. Sophy was very much confused by my being told all

this, and said that when ‘Tom’ was made a judge he wouldn’t be so ready

to proclaim it. Which ‘Tom’ denied; averring that he should always be

equally proud of it, under all circumstances.

‘What a thoroughly good and charming wife she is, my dear Traddles!’

said I, when she had gone away, laughing.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Traddles, ‘she is, without any

exception, the dearest girl! The way she manages this place; her

punctuality, domestic knowledge, economy, and order; her cheerfulness,

Copperfield!’

‘Indeed, you have reason to commend her!’ I returned. ‘You are a happy

fellow. I believe you make yourselves, and each other, two of the

happiest people in the world.’

‘I am sure we ARE two of the happiest people,’ returned Traddles. ‘I

admit that, at all events. Bless my soul, when I see her getting up

by candle-light on these dark mornings, busying herself in the day’s

arrangements, going out to market before the clerks come into the Inn,

caring for no weather, devising the most capital little dinners out of

the plainest materials, making puddings and pies, keeping everything in

its right place, always so neat and ornamental herself, sitting up

at night with me if it’s ever so late, sweet-tempered and encouraging

always, and all for me, I positively sometimes can’t believe it,

Copperfield!’

He was tender of the very slippers she had been warming, as he put them

on, and stretched his feet enjoyingly upon the fender.

‘I positively sometimes can’t believe it,’ said Traddles. ‘Then our

pleasures! Dear me, they are inexpensive, but they are quite wonderful!

When we are at home here, of an evening, and shut the outer door, and

draw those curtains--which she made--where could we be more snug? When

it’s fine, and we go out for a walk in the evening, the streets

abound in enjoyment for us. We look into the glittering windows of the

jewellers’ shops; and I show Sophy which of the diamond-eyed serpents,

coiled up on white satin rising grounds, I would give her if I could

afford it; and Sophy shows me which of the gold watches that are

capped and jewelled and engine-turned, and possessed of the horizontal

lever-escape-movement, and all sorts of things, she would buy for me if

she could afford it; and we pick out the spoons and forks, fish-slices,

butter-knives, and sugar-tongs, we should both prefer if we could both

afford it; and really we go away as if we had got them! Then, when we

stroll into the squares, and great streets, and see a house to let,

sometimes we look up at it, and say, how would THAT do, if I was made

a judge? And we parcel it out--such a room for us, such rooms for the

girls, and so forth; until we settle to our satisfaction that it

would do, or it wouldn’t do, as the case may be. Sometimes, we go at

half-price to the pit of the theatre--the very smell of which is cheap,

in my opinion, at the money--and there we thoroughly enjoy the play:

which Sophy believes every word of, and so do I. In walking home,

perhaps we buy a little bit of something at a cook’s-shop, or a little

lobster at the fishmongers, and bring it here, and make a splendid

supper, chatting about what we have seen. Now, you know, Copperfield, if

I was Lord Chancellor, we couldn’t do this!’

‘You would do something, whatever you were, my dear Traddles,’ thought

I, ‘that would be pleasant and amiable. And by the way,’ I said aloud,

‘I suppose you never draw any skeletons now?’

‘Really,’ replied Traddles, laughing, and reddening, ‘I can’t wholly

deny that I do, my dear Copperfield. For being in one of the back rows

of the King’s Bench the other day, with a pen in my hand, the fancy came

into my head to try how I had preserved that accomplishment. And I am

afraid there’s a skeleton--in a wig--on the ledge of the desk.’

After we had both laughed heartily, Traddles wound up by looking with a

smile at the fire, and saying, in his forgiving way, ‘Old Creakle!’

‘I have a letter from that old--Rascal here,’ said I. For I never was

less disposed to forgive him the way he used to batter Traddles, than

when I saw Traddles so ready to forgive him himself.

‘From Creakle the schoolmaster?’ exclaimed Traddles. ‘No!’

‘Among the persons who are attracted to me in my rising fame and

fortune,’ said I, looking over my letters, ‘and who discover that they

were always much attached to me, is the self-same Creakle. He is not

a schoolmaster now, Traddles. He is retired. He is a Middlesex

Magistrate.’

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

all.

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

‘Oh dear me!’ replied Traddles, ‘it would be very difficult to answer

that question. Perhaps he voted for somebody, or lent money to somebody,

or bought something of somebody, or otherwise obliged somebody, or

jobbed for somebody, who knew somebody who got the lieutenant of the

county to nominate him for the commission.’

‘On the commission he is, at any rate,’ said I. ‘And he writes to me

here, that he will be glad to show me, in operation, the only true

system of prison discipline; the only unchallengeable way of making

sincere and lasting converts and penitents--which, you know, is by

solitary confinement. What do you say?’

‘To the system?’ inquired Traddles, looking grave.

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

‘I don’t object,’ said Traddles.

‘Then I’ll write to say so. You remember (to say nothing of our

treatment) this same Creakle turning his son out of doors, I suppose,

and the life he used to lead his wife and daughter?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Traddles.

‘Yet, if you’ll read his letter, you’ll find he is the tenderest of

men to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felonies,’ said I;

‘though I can’t find that his tenderness extends to any other class of

created beings.’

Traddles shrugged his shoulders, and was not at all surprised. I had not

expected him to be, and was not surprised myself; or my observation of

similar practical satires would have been but scanty. We arranged the

time of our visit, and I wrote accordingly to Mr. Creakle that evening.

On the appointed day--I think it was the next day, but no

matter--Traddles and I repaired to the prison where Mr. Creakle was

powerful. It was an immense and solid building, erected at a vast

expense. I could not help thinking, as we approached the gate, what

an uproar would have been made in the country, if any deluded man had

proposed to spend one half the money it had cost, on the erection of an

industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge for the deserving

old.

In an office that might have been on the ground-floor of the Tower of

Babel, it was so massively constructed, we were presented to our old

schoolmaster; who was one of a group, composed of two or three of the

busier sort of magistrates, and some visitors they had brought. He

received me, like a man who had formed my mind in bygone years, and

had always loved me tenderly. On my introducing Traddles, Mr. Creakle

expressed, in like manner, but in an inferior degree, that he had always

been Traddles’s guide, philosopher, and friend. Our venerable instructor

was a great deal older, and not improved in appearance. His face was

as fiery as ever; his eyes were as small, and rather deeper set. The

scanty, wet-looking grey hair, by which I remembered him, was almost

gone; and the thick veins in his bald head were none the more agreeable

to look at.

After some conversation among these gentlemen, from which I might have

supposed that there was nothing in the world to be legitimately taken

into account but the supreme comfort of prisoners, at any expense, and

nothing on the wide earth to be done outside prison-doors, we began

our inspection. It being then just dinner-time, we went, first into the

great kitchen, where every prisoner’s dinner was in course of being set

out separately (to be handed to him in his cell), with the regularity

and precision of clock-work. I said aside, to Traddles, that I wondered

whether it occurred to anybody, that there was a striking contrast

between these plentiful repasts of choice quality, and the dinners, not

to say of paupers, but of soldiers, sailors, labourers, the great bulk

of the honest, working community; of whom not one man in five hundred

ever dined half so well. But I learned that the ‘system’ required high

living; and, in short, to dispose of the system, once for all, I found

that on that head and on all others, ‘the system’ put an end to all

doubts, and disposed of all anomalies. Nobody appeared to have the least

idea that there was any other system, but THE system, to be considered.

As we were going through some of the magnificent passages, I inquired of

Mr. Creakle and his friends what were supposed to be the main advantages

of this all-governing and universally over-riding system? I found

them to be the perfect isolation of prisoners--so that no one man in

confinement there, knew anything about another; and the reduction of

prisoners to a wholesome state of mind, leading to sincere contrition

and repentance.

Now, it struck me, when we began to visit individuals in their cells,

and to traverse the passages in which those cells were, and to have the

manner of the going to chapel and so forth, explained to us, that there

was a strong probability of the prisoners knowing a good deal about each

other, and of their carrying on a pretty complete system of intercourse.

This, at the time I write, has been proved, I believe, to be the case;

but, as it would have been flat blasphemy against the system to have

hinted such a doubt then, I looked out for the penitence as diligently

as I could.

And here again, I had great misgivings. I found as prevalent a fashion

in the form of the penitence, as I had left outside in the forms of the

coats and waistcoats in the windows of the tailors’ shops. I found a

vast amount of profession, varying very little in character: varying

very little (which I thought exceedingly suspicious), even in words. I

found a great many foxes, disparaging whole vineyards of inaccessible

grapes; but I found very few foxes whom I would have trusted within

reach of a bunch. Above all, I found that the most professing men were

the greatest objects of interest; and that their conceit, their vanity,

their want of excitement, and their love of deception (which many

of them possessed to an almost incredible extent, as their histories

showed), all prompted to these professions, and were all gratified by

them.

However, I heard so repeatedly, in the course of our goings to and fro,

of a certain Number Twenty Seven, who was the Favourite, and who really

appeared to be a Model Prisoner, that I resolved to suspend my judgement

until I should see Twenty Seven. Twenty Eight, I understood, was also

a bright particular star; but it was his misfortune to have his glory

a little dimmed by the extraordinary lustre of Twenty Seven. I heard so

much of Twenty Seven, of his pious admonitions to everybody around him,

and of the beautiful letters he constantly wrote to his mother (whom he

seemed to consider in a very bad way), that I became quite impatient to

see him.

I had to restrain my impatience for some time, on account of Twenty

Seven being reserved for a concluding effect. But, at last, we came to

the door of his cell; and Mr. Creakle, looking through a little hole in

it, reported to us, in a state of the greatest admiration, that he was

reading a Hymn Book.

There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Number Twenty Seven

reading his Hymn Book, that the little hole was blocked up, six or seven

heads deep. To remedy this inconvenience, and give us an opportunity of

conversing with Twenty Seven in all his purity, Mr. Creakle directed the

door of the cell to be unlocked, and Twenty Seven to be invited out into

the passage. This was done; and whom should Traddles and I then behold,

to our amazement, in this converted Number Twenty Seven, but Uriah Heep!

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

‘How do you do, Mr. Copperfield? How do you do, Mr. Traddles?’

This recognition caused a general admiration in the party. I rather

thought that everyone was struck by his not being proud, and taking

notice of us.

‘Well, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, mournfully admiring him. ‘How do

you find yourself today?’

‘I am very umble, sir!’ replied Uriah Heep.

‘You are always so, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle.

Here, another gentleman asked, with extreme anxiety: ‘Are you quite

comfortable?’

‘Yes, I thank you, sir!’ said Uriah Heep, looking in that direction.

‘Far more comfortable here, than ever I was outside. I see my follies,

now, sir. That’s what makes me comfortable.’

Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third questioner, forcing

himself to the front, inquired with extreme feeling: ‘How do you find

the beef?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Uriah, glancing in the new direction of this

voice, ‘it was tougher yesterday than I could wish; but it’s my duty to

bear. I have committed follies, gentlemen,’ said Uriah, looking round

with a meek smile, ‘and I ought to bear the consequences without

repining.’ A murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty Seven’s celestial

state of mind, and partly of indignation against the Contractor who had

given him any cause of complaint (a note of which was immediately made

by Mr. Creakle), having subsided, Twenty Seven stood in the midst of

us, as if he felt himself the principal object of merit in a highly

meritorious museum. That we, the neophytes, might have an excess of

light shining upon us all at once, orders were given to let out Twenty

Eight.

I had been so much astonished already, that I only felt a kind of

resigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forth, reading a good book!

‘Twenty Eight,’ said a gentleman in spectacles, who had not yet spoken,

‘you complained last week, my good fellow, of the cocoa. How has it been

since?’

‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, ‘it has been better made. If I

might take the liberty of saying so, sir, I don’t think the milk which

is boiled with it is quite genuine; but I am aware, sir, that there is

a great adulteration of milk, in London, and that the article in a pure

state is difficult to be obtained.’

It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed his Twenty

Eight against Mr. Creakle’s Twenty Seven, for each of them took his own

man in hand.

‘What is your state of mind, Twenty Eight?’ said the questioner in

spectacles.

‘I thank you, sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer; ‘I see my follies now, sir.

I am a good deal troubled when I think of the sins of my former

companions, sir; but I trust they may find forgiveness.’

‘You are quite happy yourself?’ said the questioner, nodding

encouragement.

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

‘Is there anything at all on your mind now?’ said the questioner. ‘If

so, mention it, Twenty Eight.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, without looking up, ‘if my eyes have not

deceived me, there is a gentleman present who was acquainted with me

in my former life. It may be profitable to that gentleman to know, sir,

that I attribute my past follies, entirely to having lived a thoughtless

life in the service of young men; and to having allowed myself to be led

by them into weaknesses, which I had not the strength to resist. I hope

that gentleman will take warning, sir, and will not be offended at my

freedom. It is for his good. I am conscious of my own past follies. I

hope he may repent of all the wickedness and sin to which he has been a

party.’

I observed that several gentlemen were shading their eyes, each with one

hand, as if they had just come into church.

‘This does you credit, Twenty Eight,’ returned the questioner. ‘I should

have expected it of you. Is there anything else?’

‘Sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer, slightly lifting up his eyebrows, but not

his eyes, ‘there was a young woman who fell into dissolute courses, that

I endeavoured to save, sir, but could not rescue. I beg that gentleman,

if he has it in his power, to inform that young woman from me that

I forgive her her bad conduct towards myself, and that I call her to

repentance--if he will be so good.’

‘I have no doubt, Twenty Eight,’ returned the questioner, ‘that the

gentleman you refer to feels very strongly--as we all must--what you

have so properly said. We will not detain you.’

‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer. ‘Gentlemen, I wish you a good

day, and hoping you and your families will also see your wickedness, and

amend!’

With this, Number Twenty Eight retired, after a glance between him and

Uriah; as if they were not altogether unknown to each other, through

some medium of communication; and a murmur went round the group, as his

door shut upon him, that he was a most respectable man, and a beautiful

case.

‘Now, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, entering on a clear stage with

his man, ‘is there anything that anyone can do for you? If so, mention

it.’

‘I would umbly ask, sir,’ returned Uriah, with a jerk of his malevolent

head, ‘for leave to write again to mother.’

‘It shall certainly be granted,’ said Mr. Creakle.

‘Thank you, sir! I am anxious about mother. I am afraid she ain’t safe.’

Somebody incautiously asked, what from? But there was a scandalized

whisper of ‘Hush!’

‘Immortally safe, sir,’ returned Uriah, writhing in the direction of

the voice. ‘I should wish mother to be got into my state. I never should

have been got into my present state if I hadn’t come here. I wish mother

had come here. It would be better for everybody, if they got took up,

and was brought here.’

This sentiment gave unbounded satisfaction--greater satisfaction, I

think, than anything that had passed yet.

‘Before I come here,’ said Uriah, stealing a look at us, as if he would

have blighted the outer world to which we belonged, if he could, ‘I was

given to follies; but now I am sensible of my follies. There’s a deal

of sin outside. There’s a deal of sin in mother. There’s nothing but sin

everywhere--except here.’

‘You are quite changed?’ said Mr. Creakle.

‘Oh dear, yes, sir!’ cried this hopeful penitent.

‘You wouldn’t relapse, if you were going out?’ asked somebody else.

‘Oh de-ar no, sir!’

‘Well!’ said Mr. Creakle, ‘this is very gratifying. You have addressed

Mr. Copperfield, Twenty Seven. Do you wish to say anything further to

him?’

‘You knew me, a long time before I came here and was changed, Mr.

Copperfield,’ said Uriah, looking at me; and a more villainous look

I never saw, even on his visage. ‘You knew me when, in spite of my

follies, I was umble among them that was proud, and meek among them that

was violent--you was violent to me yourself, Mr. Copperfield. Once, you

struck me a blow in the face, you know.’

General commiseration. Several indignant glances directed at me.

‘But I forgive you, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Uriah, making his forgiving

nature the subject of a most impious and awful parallel, which I shall

not record. ‘I forgive everybody. It would ill become me to bear malice.

I freely forgive you, and I hope you’ll curb your passions in future. I

hope Mr. W. will repent, and Miss W., and all of that sinful lot. You’ve

been visited with affliction, and I hope it may do you good; but you’d

better have come here. Mr. W. had better have come here, and Miss W.

too. The best wish I could give you, Mr. Copperfield, and give all of

you gentlemen, is, that you could be took up and brought here. When I

think of my past follies, and my present state, I am sure it would be

best for you. I pity all who ain’t brought here!’

He sneaked back into his cell, amidst a little chorus of approbation;

and both Traddles and I experienced a great relief when he was locked

in.

It was a characteristic feature in this repentance, that I was fain to

ask what these two men had done, to be there at all. That appeared to be

the last thing about which they had anything to say. I addressed

myself to one of the two warders, who, I suspected from certain latent

indications in their faces, knew pretty well what all this stir was

worth.

‘Do you know,’ said I, as we walked along the passage, ‘what felony was

Number Twenty Seven’s last “folly”?’

The answer was that it was a Bank case.

‘A fraud on the Bank of England?’ I asked. ‘Yes, sir. Fraud, forgery,

and conspiracy. He and some others. He set the others on. It was a deep

plot for a large sum. Sentence, transportation for life. Twenty Seven

was the knowingest bird of the lot, and had very nearly kept himself

safe; but not quite. The Bank was just able to put salt upon his

tail--and only just.’

‘Do you know Twenty Eight’s offence?’

‘Twenty Eight,’ returned my informant, speaking throughout in a low

tone, and looking over his shoulder as we walked along the passage, to

guard himself from being overheard, in such an unlawful reference

to these Immaculates, by Creakle and the rest; ‘Twenty Eight (also

transportation) got a place, and robbed a young master of a matter of

two hundred and fifty pounds in money and valuables, the night before

they were going abroad. I particularly recollect his case, from his

being took by a dwarf.’

‘A what?’

‘A little woman. I have forgot her name?’

‘Not Mowcher?’

‘That’s it! He had eluded pursuit, and was going to America in a flaxen

wig, and whiskers, and such a complete disguise as never you see in all

your born days; when the little woman, being in Southampton, met

him walking along the street--picked him out with her sharp eye in a

moment--ran betwixt his legs to upset him--and held on to him like grim

Death.’

‘Excellent Miss Mowcher!’ cried I.

‘You’d have said so, if you had seen her, standing on a chair in the

witness-box at the trial, as I did,’ said my friend. ‘He cut her face

right open, and pounded her in the most brutal manner, when she took

him; but she never loosed her hold till he was locked up. She held so

tight to him, in fact, that the officers were obliged to take ‘em

both together. She gave her evidence in the gamest way, and was highly

complimented by the Bench, and cheered right home to her lodgings. She

said in Court that she’d have took him single-handed (on account of what

she knew concerning him), if he had been Samson. And it’s my belief she

would!’

It was mine too, and I highly respected Miss Mowcher for it.

We had now seen all there was to see. It would have been in vain to

represent to such a man as the Worshipful Mr. Creakle, that Twenty Seven

and Twenty Eight were perfectly consistent and unchanged; that exactly

what they were then, they had always been; that the hypocritical knaves

were just the subjects to make that sort of profession in such a place;

that they knew its market-value at least as well as we did, in the

immediate service it would do them when they were expatriated; in

a word, that it was a rotten, hollow, painfully suggestive piece of

business altogether. We left them to their system and themselves, and

went home wondering.

‘Perhaps it’s a good thing, Traddles,’ said I, ‘to have an unsound Hobby

ridden hard; for it’s the sooner ridden to death.’

‘I hope so,’ replied Traddles.