time, Dotheboys Hall and
its last breaking up began to be forgotten by the neighbours, or to be
only spoken of as among things that had been.

DAVID COPPERFIELD

[Illustration: LITTLE EM'LY AND DAVID COPPERFIELD.]

The first things that assume shape and form in the recollections of my
childhood are my mother, with her pretty hair and youthful shape, and
Peggotty, our faithful serving maid, with no shape at all, and eyes so
dark that they seemed to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, and
cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wonder the birds didn't peck her in
preference to apples.

What else do I remember?--let me see. There comes to me a vision of our
home, Blunderstone Rookery, with its ground-floor kitchen, and long
passage leading from it to the front door. A dark store-room opens out of
the kitchen, and in it there is the smell of soap, pickles, pepper,
candles, and coffee, all at one whiff. Then there are the two
parlours;--the one in which we sit of an evening, my mother and I and
Peggotty,--for Peggotty is quite our companion,--and the best parlour
where we sit on a Sunday; grandly, but not so comfortably, while my mother
reads the old familiar Bible stories to us.

And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed bedroom windows,
and the ragged old rooks' nests dangling in the elm-trees. I see the
garden--a very preserve of butterflies, where the pigeon house and
dog-kennel are, and the fruit trees. And I see again my mother winding her
bright curls around her fingers, and nobody is as proud of her beauty as I
am.

One night when Peggotty and I had been sitting cosily by the parlour fire,
my mother came home from spending the evening at a neighbour's, and with
her was a gentleman with beautiful black hair and whiskers. As my mother
stooped to kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly privileged
little fellow than a monarch.

"What does that mean?" I asked him. He smiled and patted me on the head in
reply, but somehow I didn't like him, and I shrank away, jealous that his
hand should touch my mother's in touching me--although my mother's gentle
chiding made me ashamed of the involuntary motion, and of my dislike for
this new friend of hers, but from chance words which I heard Peggotty
utter, I knew that she too felt as I did.

From that time the gentleman with black whiskers, Mr. Murdstone by name,
was at our house constantly, and gradually I became used to seeing him,