'Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much engaged, Miss Summerson,' said Mrs. Jellyby, sweetly casting her eyes for a moment on me, and considering where to put the particular letter she had just opened, 'this would distress and disappoint me. But I have so much to think of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Gha, and it is so necessary I should concentrate myself, that there is my remedy, you see.'
As Caddy gave me a glance of entreaty, and as Mrs. Jellyby was looking far away into Africa straight through my bonnet and head, I thought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visit, and to attract Mrs. Jellyby's attention.
'Perhaps,' I began, 'you will wonder what has brought me here to interrupt you.'
'I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson,' said Mrs. Jellyby, pursuing her employment with a placid smile. 'Though I wish,' and she shook her head, 'she was more interested in the Borrioboolan project.'
'I have come with Caddy,' said I, 'because Caddy justly thinks she ought not to have a secret from her mother; and fancies I shall encourage and aid her (though I am sure I don't know how), in imparting one.'
'Caddy,' said Mrs. Jellyby, pausing for a moment in her occupation, and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her head, 'you are going to tell me some nonsense.'
Caddy untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bonnet off, and letting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and crying heartily, said, 'Ma, I am engaged.'
'O, you ridiculous child!' observed Mrs. Jellyby, with an abstracted air, as she looked over the dispatch last opened; 'what a goose you are!'
'I am engaged, Ma,' sobbed Caddy, 'to young Mr. Turvey-drop, at the Academy; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who is a very gentlemanly man indeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray you'll give us yours, Ma, because I never could be happy without it. I never, never could!' sobbed Caddy, quite forgetful of her general complainings, and of everything but her natural affection.
'You see again, Miss Summerson,' observed Mrs. Jellyby, serenely, 'what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as I am, and to have this necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here is Caddy engaged to a dancing-master's son – mixed up with people who have no more sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she has herself! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the first philanthropists of our time, has mentioned to me that he was really disposed to be interested in her!'
'Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale!' sobbed Caddy.
'Caddy, Caddy!' returned Mrs. Jellyby, opening another letter with the greatest complacency. 'I have no doubt you did. How could you do otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympathies with which he overflows! Now, if my public duties were not a favourite child to me, if I were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale, these petty details might grieve me very much, Miss Summerson. But can I permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Caddy (from whom I expect nothing else), to interpose between me and the great African continent? No. No,' repeated Mrs. Jellyby, in a calm clear voice, and with an agreeable smile, as she opened more letters and sorted them. 'No, indeed.'
I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception, though I might have expected it, that I did not know what to say. Caddy seemed equally at a loss. Mrs. Jellyby continued to open and sort letters; and to repeat occasionally, in quite a charming tone of voice, and with a smile of perfect composure, 'No, indeed.'
'I hope, Ma,' sobbed poor Caddy at last, 'you are not angry?'
'O Caddy, you really are an absurd girl,' returned Mrs. Jellyby, 'to ask such questions, after what I have said of the preoccupation of my mind.'
'And I hope, Ma, you give us your consent, and wish us well?' said Caddy.
'You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind,' said Mrs. Jellyby; 'and a degenerate child, when you might have devoted yourself to the great public measure. But the step is taken, and I have engaged a boy, and there is no more to be said. Now, pray, Caddy,' said Mrs. Jellyby – for Caddy was kissing her—'don't delay me in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batch of papers before the afternoon post comes in!'
I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I was detained for a moment by Caddy's saying,
'You won't object to my bringing him to see you, Ma?'
'O dear me, Caddy,' cried Mrs. Jellyby, who had relapsed into that distant contemplation, 'have you begun again? Bring whom?'
'Him, Ma.'
'Caddy, Caddy!' said Mrs. Jellyby, quite weary of such little matters. 'Then you must bring him some evening which is not a Parent Society night, or a Branch night, or a Ramification night. You must accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. My dear Miss Summerson, it was very kind of you to come here to help out this silly chit. Good-bye! When I tell you that I have fifty-eight new letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand the details of the Native and Coffee Cultivation question, this morning, I need not apologise for having very little leisure.'
I was not surprised by Caddy's being in low spirits, when we went down-stairs; or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, or by her saying she would far rather have been scolded than treated with such indifference, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor in clothes, that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn't know. I gradually cheered her up, by dwelling on the many things she would do for her unfortunate father, and for Peepy, when she had a home of her own; and finally we went down-stairs into the damp dark kitchen, where Peepy and his little brothers and sisters were grovelling on the stone floor, and where we had such a game of play with them, that to prevent myself from being quite torn to pieces I was obliged to fall back on my fairy tales. From time to time, I heard loud voices in the parlour overhead; and occasionally a violent tumbling about of the furniture. The last effect I am afraid was caused by poor Mr. Jellyby's breaking away from the dining-table, and making rushes at the window, with the intention of throwing himself into the area, whenever he made any new attempt to understand his affairs.
As I rode quietly home at night after the day's bustle, I thought a good deal of Caddy's engagement, and felt confirmed in my hopes (in spite of the elder Mr. Turveydrop) that she would be the happier and better for it. And if there seemed to be but a slender chance of her and her husband ever finding out what the model of Deportment really was, why that was all for the best too, and who would wish them to be wiser? I did not wish them to be any wiser, and indeed was half ashamed of not entirely believing in him myself. And I looked up at the stars, and thought about travellers in distant countries and the stars they saw, and hoped I might always be so blest and happy as to be useful to some one in my small way.
They were so glad to see me when I got home, as they always were, that I could have sat down and cried for joy, if that had not been a method of making myself disagreeable. Everybody in the house, from the lowest to the highest, showed me such a bright face of welcome, and spoke so cheerily, and was so happy to do anything for me, that I suppose there never was such a fortunate little creature in the world.
We got into such a chatty state that night, through Ada and my guardian drawing me out to tell them all about Caddy, that I went on prose, prose, prosing, for a length of time. At last I got up to my own room, quite red to think how I had been holding forth; and then I heard a soft tap at my door. So I said, 'Come in!' and there came in a pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourning, who dropped a curtsey.
'If you please, miss,' said the little girl, in a soft voice, 'I am Charley.'
'Why, so you are,' said I, stooping down in astonishment, and giving her a kiss. 'How glad am I to see you, Charley!'
'If you please, miss,' pursued Charley, in the same soft voice, 'I'm your maid.'
'Charley?'
'If you please, miss, I'm a present to you, with Mr. Jarndyce's love.'
I sat down with my hand on Charley's neck, and looked at Charley.
'And O, miss,' says Charley, clapping her hands, with the tears starting down her dimpled cheeks, Tom's at school, if you please, and learning so good! And little Emma, she's with Mrs. Blinder, miss, a being took such care of! And Tom, he would have been at school – and Emma, she would have been left with Mrs. Blinder – and me, I should have been here – all a deal sooner, miss; only Mr. Jarndyce thought that Tom and Emma and me had better get a little used to parting first, we was so small. Don't cry, if you please, miss!'
'I can't help it, Charley.'
'No, miss, nor I can't help it,' says Charley. 'And if you please, miss, Mr. Jarndyce's love, and he thinks you'll like to teach me now and then. And if you please, Tom and Emma and me is to see each other once a month. And I'm so happy and so thankful, miss,' cried Charley with a heaving heart, 'and I'll try to be such a good maid!'
'O Charley dear, never forget who did all this!'
'No, miss, I never will. Nor Tom won't. Nor yet Emma. It was all you, miss.'
'I have known nothing of it. It was Mr. Jarndyce, Charley.'
'Yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you, and that you might be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a little present with his love, and it was all done for the love of you. Me and Tom was to be sure to remember it.'
Charley dried her eyes, and entered on her functions: going in her matronly little way about and about the room, and folding up everything she could lay her hands upon. Presently, Charley came creeping back to my side, and said:
'O don't cry, if you please, miss.'
And I said again, 'I can't help it, Charley.'
And Charley said again, 'No, miss, nor I can't help it.' And so, after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she.
Chapter XXIV
An appeal case
As soon as Richard and I had held the conversation of which I have given an account, Richard communicated the state of his mind to Mr. Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by surprise, when he received the representation; though it caused him much uneasiness and disappointment. He and Richard were often closeted together, late at night and early in the morning, and passed whole days in London, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge, and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. While they were thus employed, my guardian, though he underwent considerable inconvenience from the state of the wind, and rubbed his head so constantly that not a single hair upon it ever rested in its right place, was as genial with Ada and me as at any other time, but maintained a steady reserve on these matters. And as our utmost endeavours could only elicit from Richard himself sweeping assurances that everything was going on capitally, and that it really was all right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved by him.
We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application was made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf, as an Infant and a Ward, and I don't know what; and that there was a quantity of talking; and that the Lord Chancellor described him, in open court, as a vexatious and capricious infant; and that the matter was adjourned and readjourned, and referred, and reported on, and petitioned about, until Richard began to doubt (as he told us) whether, if he entered the army at all, it would not be as a veteran of seventy or eighty years of age. At last an appointment was made for him to see the Lord Chancellor again in his private room, and there the Lord Chancellor very seriously reproved him for trifling with time, and not knowing his mind—'a pretty good joke, I think,' said Richard, 'from that quarter!'—and at last it was settled that his application should be granted. His name was entered at the Horse Guards, as an applicant for an Ensign's commission; the purchase-money was deposited at an Agent's; and Richard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a violent course of military study, and got up at five o'clock every morning to practise the broadsword exercise.
Thus vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. We sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, as being in the paper or out of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being to be spoken to; and it came on, and it went off. Richard, who was now in a Professor's house in London, was able to be with us less frequently than before; my guardian still maintained the same reserve; and so time passed until the commission was obtained, and Richard received directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland.
He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had a long conference with my guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsed before my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I were sitting, and said, 'Come in, my dears!' We went in, and found Richard, whom we had last seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-piece, looking mortified and angry.
'Rick and I, Ada,' said Mr. Jarndyce, 'are not quite of one mind. Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!'
'You are very hard with me, sir,' said Richard. 'The harder, because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects, and have done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I never could have been set right without you, sir.'
'Well, well!' said Mr. Jarndyce, 'I want to set you more right yet. I want to set you more right with yourself.'
'I hope you will excuse my saying, sir,' returned Richard in a fiery way, but yet respectfully, 'that I think I am the best judge about myself.'
'I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick,' observed Mr. Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, 'that it's quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think so. I must do my duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in cool blood; and I hope you will always care for me, cool and hot.'
Ada had turned so pale, that he made her sit down in his reading-chair, and sat beside her.
'It's nothing, my dear,' he said, 'it's nothing. Rick and I have only had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are the theme. Now you are afraid of what's coming.'
'I am not indeed, cousin John,' replied Ada, with a smile, 'if it is to come from you.'
'Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute's calm attention, without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do you likewise. My dear girl,' putting his hand on hers, as it lay on the side of the easy-chair, 'you recollect the talk we had, we four, when the little woman told me of a little love affair?'
'It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget your kindness, that day, cousin John.'
'I can never forget it,' said Richard.
'And I can never forget it,' said Ada.
'So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the easier for us to agree,' returned my guardian, his face irradiated by the gentleness and honour of his heart. 'Ada, my bird, you should know that Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. All that he has of certainty will be expended when he is fully equipped. He has exhausted his resources, and is bound henceforward to the tree he has planted.'
'Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I am quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir,' said Richard, 'is not all I have.'
'Rick, Rick!' cried my guardian, with a sudden terror in his manner, and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he would have stopped his ears, 'for the love of God, don't found a hope or expectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side the grave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantom that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better to beg, better to die!'
We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bit his lip and held his breath, and glanced at me, as if he felt, and knew that I felt too, how much he needed it.
'Ada, my dear,' said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness, 'these are strong words of advice; but I live in Bleak House, and have seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had, to start him in the race of life, is ventured. I recommend to him and you, for his sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the understanding that there is no sort of contract between you. I must go further. I will be plain with you both. You were to confide freely in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask you wholly to relinquish, for the present, any tic but your relationship.'
'Better to say at once, sir,' returned Richard, 'that you renounce all confidence in me, and that you advise Ada to do the same.'
'Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don't mean it.'
'You think I have begun ill, sir,' retorted Richard. 'I have, I know.'
'How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when we spoke of these things last,' said Mr. Jarndyce, in a cordial and encouraging manner. 'You have not made that beginning yet; but there is a time for all things, and yours is not gone by – rather, it is just now fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young, my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothing more. What more may come, must come of being worked out, Rick; and no sooner.'
'You are very hard with me, sir,' said Richard. 'Harder than I could have supposed you would be.'
'My dear boy,' said Mr. Jarndyce, 'I am harder with myself when I do anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your own hands. Ada, it is better for him that he should be free, and that there should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it is better for her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of you will do what is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves.'
'Why is it best, sir?' returned Richard, hastily. 'It was not, when we opened our hearts to you. You did not say so, then.'
'I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick– but I have had experience since.'
'You mean of me, sir.'
'Well! Yes, of both of you,' said Mr. Jarndyce, kindly. 'The time is not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is not right, and I must not recognise it. Come, come, my young cousins, begin afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to write your lives in.'
Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada, but said nothing.
'I have avoided saying one word to either of you, or to Esther,' said Mr. Jarndyce, 'until now, in order that we might be open as the day, and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I now most earnestly entreat, you two, to part as you came here. Leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do wrong; and you will have made me do wrong, in ever bringing you together.'
A long silence succeeded.
'Cousin Richard,' said Ada, then, raising her blue eyes tenderly to his face, 'after what our cousin John has said, I think no choice is left us. Your mind may be quite at ease about me; for you will leave me here under his care, and will be sure that I can have nothing to wish for; quite sure, if I guide myself by his advice. I–I don't doubt, cousin Richard,' said Ada, a little confused, 'that you are very fond of me, and I–I don't think you will fall in love with anybody else. But I should like you to consider well about it, too; as I should like you to be in all things very happy. You may trust in me, cousin Richard. I am not at all changeable; but I am not unreasonable, and should never blame you. Even cousins may be sorry to part; and in truth I am very, very sorry, Richard, though I know it's for your welfare. I shall always think of you affectionately, and often talk of you with Esther, and – and perhaps you will sometimes think a little of me, cousin Richard. So now,' said Ada, going up to him and giving him her trembling hand, 'we are only cousins again, Richard – for the time perhaps – and I pray for a blessing on my dear cousin, where-ever he goes!'
It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive my guardian, for entertaining the very same opinion of him which he himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. But it was certainly the case. I observed, with great regret, that from this hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had been before. He had every reason given him to be so, but he was not; and, solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise between them.
In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost himself, and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained in Hertfordshire, while he, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went up to London for a week. He remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of tears; and at such times would confide to me the heaviest self-reproaches. But in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure up some undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich and happy for ever, and would become as gay as possible.
It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day long, buying a variety of things, of which he stood in need. Of the things he would have bought, if he had been left to his own ways, I say nothing. He was perfectly confidential with me, and often talked so sensibly and feelingly about his faults and his vigorous resolutions, and dwelt so much upon the encouragement he derived from these conversations, that I could never have been tired if I had tried.
There used, in that week, to come backward and forward to our lodging, to fence with Richard, a person who had formerly been a cavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free bearing, with whom Richard had practised for some months. I heard so much about him, not only from Richard, but from my guardian too, that I was purposely in the room, with my work, one morning after breakfast when he came.
'Good morning, Mr. George,' said my guardian, who happened to be alone with me. 'Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile, Miss Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down.'
He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought; and, without looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across and across his upper lip.
'You are as punctual as the sun,' said Mr. Jarndyce.
'Military time, sir,' he replied. 'Force of habit. A mere habit in me, sir. I am not at all business-like.'
'Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?' said Mr. Jarndyce.
'Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a one.'
'And what kind of a shot, and what kind of a swordsman, do you make of Mr. Carstone?' said my guardian.
'Pretty good, sir,' he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest, and looking very large. 'If Mr. Carstone was to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good.'
'But he don't, I suppose?' said my guardian.
'He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. Perhaps he has something else upon it – some young lady, perhaps.' His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.
'He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George,' said I, laughing, 'though you seem to suspect me.'
He reddened a little through his brown, and made me a trooper's bow. 'No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the Roughs.'
'Not at all,' said I. 'I take it as a compliment.'
If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now, in three or four quick successive glances. 'I beg your pardon, sir,' he said to my guardian, with a manly kind of diffidence, 'but you did me the honour to mention the young lady's name—'
'Miss Summerson.'
'Miss Summerson,' he repeated, and looked at me again.
'Do you know the name?' I asked.
'No, miss. To my knowledge, I never heard it. I thought I had seen you somewhere.'
'I think not,' I returned, raising my head from my work to look at him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and manner that I was glad of the opportunity. 'I remember faces very well.'
'So do I, miss!' he returned, meeting my look with the fulness of his dark and broad forehead. 'Humph! What set me off, now, upon that!'
His once more reddening through his brown, and being disconcerted by his efforts to remember the association, brought my guardian to his relief.
'Have you many pupils, Mr. George?'
'They vary in their number, sir. Mostly, they're but a small lot to live by.'
'And what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?'
'All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to 'prentices. I have had French women come, before now, and show themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of course – but they go everywhere, where the doors stand open.'
'People don't come with grudges, and schemes of finishing their practice with live targets, I hope?' said my guardian, smiling.
'Not much of that, sir, though that has happened. Mostly they come for skill – or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other. I beg your pardon,' said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright, and squaring an elbow on each knee, 'but I believe you're a Chancery suitor, if I have heard correct?'
'I am sorry to say I am.'
'I have had one of your compatriots in my time, sir.'
'A Chancery suitor?' returned my guardian. 'How was that?'
'Why, the man was so badgered, and worried, and tortured, by being knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post,' said Mr. George, 'that he got out of sorts. I don't believe he had any idea of taking aim at anybody; but he was in that condition of resentment and violence, that he would come and pay for fifty shots, and fire away till he was red hot. One day I said to him when there was nobody by, and he had been talking to me angrily about his wrongs, "If this practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well and good; but I don't altogether like your being so bent upon it, in your present state of mind; I'd rather you took to something else." I was on my guard for a blow, he was that passionate; but he received it in very good part, and left off directly. We shook hands, and struck up a sort of friendship.'
'What was that man?' asked my guardian, in a new tone of interest.
'Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer, before they made a baited bull of him,' said Mr. George.
'Was his name Gridley?'
'It was, sir.'
Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright glances at me, as my guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise at the coincidence; and I therefore explained to him how we knew the name. He made me another of his soldierly bows, in acknowledgment of what he called my condescension.
'I don't know,' he said, as he looked at me, 'what it is that sets me off again – but – bosh! what's my head running against!' He passed one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair, as if to sweep the broken thoughts out of his mind; and sat a little forward, with one arm akimbo and the other resting on his leg, looking in a brown study at the ground.
'I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this Gridley into new troubles, and that he is in hiding,' said my guardian.
'So I am told, sir,' returned Mr. George, still musing and looking on the ground. 'So I am told.'
'You don't know where?'
'No, sir,' returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming out of his reverie. 'I can't say anything about him. He will be worn out soon, I expect. You may file a strong man's heart away for a good many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last.'
Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George rose, made me another of his soldierly bows, wished my guardian a good day, and strode heavily out of the room.
This was the morning of the day appointed for Richard's departure. We had no more purchases to make now; I had completed all his packing early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged until night, when he was to go to Liverpool for Holyhead. Jarndyce and Jarndyce being again expected to come on that day, Richard proposed to me that we should go down to the Court and hear what passed. As it was his last day, and he was eager to go, and I had never been there, I gave my consent, and we walked down to Westminster, where the Court was then sitting. We beguiled the way with arrangements concerning the letters that Richard was to write to me, and the letters that I was to write to him; and with a great many hopeful projects. My guardian knew where we were going, and therefore was not with us.
When we came to the Court, there was the Lord Chancellor – the same whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln's Inn – sitting in great state and gravity, on the bench; with the mace and seals on a red table below him, and an immense flat nosegay, like a little garden, which scented the whole Court. Below the table, again, was a long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers on the matting at their feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and gowns – some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobody paying much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor leaned back in his very easy chair, with his elbow on the cushioned arm, and his forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were present, dozed; some read the newspapers; some walked about, or whispered in groups: all seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very unconcerned, and extremely comfortable.
To see everything going on so smoothly, and to think of the roughness of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that full dress and ceremony, and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared misery it represented; to consider that, while the sickness of hope deferred was raging in so many hearts, this polite show went calmly on from day to day, and year to year, in such good order and composure; to behold the Lord Chancellor, and the whole array of practitioners under him, looking at one another and at the spectators, as if nobody had ever heard that all over England the name in which they were assembled was a bitter jest: was held in universal horror, contempt, and indignation: was known for something so flagrant and bad, that little short of a miracle could bring any good out of it to any one: this was so curious and self-contradictory to me, who had no experience of it, that it was at first incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I sat where Richard put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me; but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene, except poor little Miss Flite, the madwoman, standing on a bench, and nodding at it.