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‘

From

‘

The

Beggared

Outcast

,

‘

WILKINS

MICAWBER

.

’

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I

was

so

shocked

by

the

contents

of

this

heart

-

rending

letter

,

that

I

ran

off

directly

towards

the

little

hotel

with

the

intention

of

taking

it

on

my

way

to

Doctor

Strong

’

s

,

and

trying

to

soothe

Mr

.

Micawber

with

a

word

of

comfort

.

But

,

half

-

way

there

,

I

met

the

London

coach

with

Mr

.

and

Mrs

.

Micawber

up

behind

;

Mr

.

Micawber

,

the

very

picture

of

tranquil

enjoyment

,

smiling

at

Mrs

.

Micawber

’

s

conversation

,

eating

walnuts

out

of

a

paper

bag

,

with

a

bottle

sticking

out

of

his

breast

pocket

.

As

they

did

not

see

me

,

I

thought

it

best

,

all

things

considered

,

not

to

see

them

.

So

,

with

a

great

weight

taken

off

my

mind

,

I

turned

into

a

by

-

street

that

was

the

nearest

way

to

school

,

and

felt

,

upon

the

whole

,

relieved

that

they

were

gone

;

though

I

still

liked

them

very

much

,

nevertheless

.

My

school

-

days

!

The

silent

gliding

on

of

my

existence

—

the

unseen

,

unfelt

progress

of

my

life

—

from

childhood

up

to

youth

!

Let

me

think

,

as

I

look

back

upon

that

flowing

water

,

now

a

dry

channel

overgrown

with

leaves

,

whether

there

are

any

marks

along

its

course

,

by

which

I

can

remember

how

it

ran

.

A

moment

,

and

I

occupy

my

place

in

the

Cathedral

,

where

we

all

went

together

,

every

Sunday

morning

,

assembling

first

at

school

for

that

purpose

.

The

earthy

smell

,

the

sunless

air

,

the

sensation

of

the

world

being

shut

out

,

the

resounding

of

the

organ

through

the

black

and

white

arched

galleries

and

aisles

,

are

wings

that

take

me

back

,

and

hold

me

hovering

above

those

days

,

in

a

half

-

sleeping

and

half

-

waking

dream

.

I

am

not

the

last

boy

in

the

school

.

I

have

risen

in

a

few

months

,

over

several

heads

.

But

the

first

boy

seems

to

me

a

mighty

creature

,

dwelling

afar

off

,

whose

giddy

height

is

unattainable

.

Agnes

says

‘

No

,

’

but

I

say

‘

Yes

,

’

and

tell

her

that

she

little

thinks

what

stores

of

knowledge

have

been

mastered

by

the

wonderful

Being

,

at

whose

place

she

thinks

I

,

even

I

,

weak

aspirant

,

may

arrive

in

time

.

He

is

not

my

private

friend

and

public

patron

,

as

Steerforth

was

,

but

I

hold

him

in

a

reverential

respect

.

I

chiefly

wonder

what

he

’

ll

be

,

when

he

leaves

Doctor

Strong

’

s

,

and

what

mankind

will

do

to

maintain

any

place

against

him

.

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But

who

is

this

that

breaks

upon

me

?

This

is

Miss

Shepherd

,

whom

I

love

.

Miss

Shepherd

is

a

boarder

at

the

Misses

Nettingalls

’

establishment

.

I

adore

Miss

Shepherd

.

She

is

a

little

girl

,

in

a

spencer

,

with

a

round

face

and

curly

flaxen

hair

.

The

Misses

Nettingalls

’

young

ladies

come

to

the

Cathedral

too

.

I

cannot

look

upon

my

book

,

for

I

must

look

upon

Miss

Shepherd

.

When

the

choristers

chaunt

,

I

hear

Miss

Shepherd

.

In

the

service

I

mentally

insert

Miss

Shepherd

’

s

name

—

I

put

her

in

among

the

Royal

Family

.

At

home

,

in

my

own

room

,

I

am

sometimes

moved

to

cry

out

,

‘

Oh

,

Miss

Shepherd

!

’

in

a

transport

of

love

.

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