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[Сlісk here]( before this spесіаl оffеr is taken down.” [Сlісk Неrе to Gеt The Dеtаіls]( My father’s family being Pirrip, and my Christian Philip, my infant tongue could make of both s nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I ced myself Pip, and came to be ced Pip. I give Pirrip as my father’s family , on the authority of his tombstone and my sister,—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I saw my father or my mother, and saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies what they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the charer and turn of the inscription, Also Georgiana of the Above, I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine,—who gave up trying to a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle,—I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had taken them out in this state of existence. Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the sm bundle of shivers growing afraid of it and beginning to cry, was Pip. Hold your noise! cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. Keep still, you little devil, or I’ll cut your throat! A fearful man, in coarse grey, with a iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked in water, and smotd in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin. I pointed to w our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the alder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church. The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and emptied my pockets. T was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When the church came to itself,—for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my feet,—when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling while he ate the bread ravenously. You young dog, said the man, licking his lips, what fat cheeks you ha’ got. I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong. Darn me if I couldn’t eat ’em, said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, and if I han’t half a mind to’t! I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn’t, and held tighter to the tombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it; partly, to keep myself from crying. After darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his. lookee , he said, the question being whether you’re to be let to live. You k what a file is? After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a er sense of helplessness and danger. You me a file. He tilted me again. And you me wittles. He tilted me again. You bring ’em both to me. He tilted me again. Or I’ll have your heart and liver out. He tilted me again. I was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both hands, and said, If you would kindly to let me keep upright, sir, perhaps I shouldn’t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more. He gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped over its own weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright position on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful :— You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you sh be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how sm it is, and your heart and your liver sh be tore out, roasted, and ate. , I ain’t alone, as you may think I am. T’s a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I am a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of ting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and creep his way to him and tear him . I am a keeping that young man from harming of you at the present moment, with difficulty. I find it wery hard to hold that young man of your inside. , what do you say? That’s the way with this boy! exclaimed my sister, pointing me out with her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me. Answer him one question, and he’ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prison-ships, right ’cross th’ meshes. We always used that for marshes, in our country. I der who’s put into prison-ships, and why they’re put t? said I, in a general way, and with quiet desperation. It was too much for Mrs. Joe, who rose. I tell you what, young fellow, said she, I didn’t bring you up by hand to badger people’s lives out. It would be blame to me and not praise, if I had. People are put in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob, and forge, and do sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking questions. , you along to bed! I was owed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went upstairs in the dark, with my head tingling,—from Mrs. Joe’s thimble having played the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words,—I felt fearfully sensible of the convenience that the hulks were handy for me. I was clearly on my way t. I had begun by asking questions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe. Since that time, which is far enough away , I have often thought that few people k what secrecy t is in the young under terror. No matter how unreasonable the terror, so that it be terror. I was in mortal terror of the young man who wanted my heart and liver; I was in mortal terror of my interlocutor with the iron leg; I was in mortal terror of myself, from whom an awful had been extred; I had no hope of deliverance through my -powerful sister, who repulsed me at every turn; I am afraid to think of what I might have done on requirement, in the secrecy of my terror. If I slept at that night, it was to imagine myself drifting down the river on a strong spring-tide, to the Hulks; a ghostly pi cing out to me through a speaking-trumpet, as I passed the gibbet-station, that I had better come ashore and be hanged t at once, and not put it . I was afraid to sleep, even if I had been inclined, I k that at the first faint dawn of morning I must rob the pantry. T was no doing it in the night, for t was no ting a light by easy friction then; to have got one I must have struck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very pi himself rattling his chains. As as the black velvet p outside my little window was shot with grey, I got up and went downstairs; every board upon the way, and every crack in every board cing after me, thief! and up, Mrs. Joe! In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied than usual, owing to the season, I was very much alarmed by a hare hanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back was half turned, winking. I had no time for verification, no time for selection, no time for anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I tied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night’s slice), some brandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had secretly used for making that intoxicating fluid, Spanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from a jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round comp pork pie. I was nearly going away without the pie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that was put away so carefully in a covered earthenware dish in a corner, and I found it was the pie, and I took it in the hope that it was for early use, and would not be missed for some time. T was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I unlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe’s tools. Then I put the enings as I had found them, ed the door at which I had entered when I ran last night, shut it, and ran for the misty marshes. It was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the outside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying t night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. , I saw the damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort of spiders’ webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade. On every rail and gate, wet lay clammy, and the marsh mist was so thick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our village—a direction which they accepted, for they came t—was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I looked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience like a phantom devoting me to the Hulks. The mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that instead of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me. This was very disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and dikes and s came bursting at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly as could be, A boy with somebody else’s pork pie! him! The cattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes, and steaming out of their nostrils, Hoa, young thief! One black ox, with a white cravat on,—who even had to my awakened conscience something of a clerical air,—fixed me so obstinately with his eyes, and moved his blunt head round in such an accusatory manner as I moved round, that I blubbered out to him, I couldn’t help it, sir! It wasn’t for myself I took it! Upon which he put down his head, blew a cloud of smoke out of his nose, and vanished with a kick-up of his hind-legs and a flourish of his tail. this time, I was ting on towards the river; but however I went, I couldn’t warm my feet, to which the damp cold seemed riveted, as the iron was riveted to the leg of the man I was running to meet. I k my way to the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down t on a Sunday with Joe, and Joe, sitting on an old gun, had told me that when I was ’prentice to him, regularly bound, we would have such Larks t! However, in the confusion of the mist, I found myself at last too far to the right, and consequently had to try back along the river-side, on the of loose stones above the mud and the stakes that staked the tide out. Making my way along with despatch, I had just crossed a ditch which I k to be very near the Battery, and had just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch, when I saw the man sitting before me. His back was towards me, and he had his arms folded, and was nodding forward, heavy with sleep. I thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his break, in that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on the shoulder. He ly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but another man! And yet this man was dressed in coarse grey, too, and had a iron on his leg, and was lame, and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that the other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat broad-brimmed low-crowned felt hat on. this I saw in a moment, for I had a moment to see it in: he swore an oath at me, made a hit at me,—it was a round weak blow that missed me and almost knocked himself down, for it made him stumble,—and then he ran into the mist, stumbling twice as he went, and I lost him. It’s the young man! I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified him. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had kn w it was. I was at the Battery after that, and t was the right man,—hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had night left hugging and limping,—waiting for me. He was awfully cold, to be sure. I half expected to see him drop down before my face and die of deadly cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry too, that when I handed him the file and he laid it down on the grass, it occurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my bundle. He did not turn me upside down this time to at what I had, but left me right side upwards while I ed the bundle and emptied my pockets. What’s in the bottle, boy? said he.       I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I noticed a decided similarity between the dog’s way of eating, and the man’s. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He swowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too and too ; and he looked sideways and t while he ate, as if he thought t was danger in every direction of somebody’s coming to take the pie away. He was altoher too unsettled in his mind over it, to appreciate it comfortably I thought, or to have anybody to dine with him, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In of which particulars he was very like the dog. I am afraid you ’t any of it for him, said I, timidly; after a silence during which I had hesitated as to the politeness of making the remark. T’s no more to be got w that came from. It was the certainty of this f that impelled me to er the hint. I der you shouldn’t have been sure of that, I returned, for we heard it up at , and that’s farther away, and we were shut in besides. Why, see ! said he. When a man’s alone on these flats, with a light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears nothin’ night, but guns firing, and voices cing. Hears? He sees the soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried afore, closing in round him. Hears his number ced, hears himself chenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the s ‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!’ and is laid hands on—and t’s nothin’! Why, if I see one pursuing party last night—coming up in , Damn ’em, with their tramp, tramp—I see a hundred. And as to firing! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad day,—But this man; he had said the rest, as if he had forgotten my being t; did you notice anything in him? Mrs. Joe, said Uncle Pumblechook, a large hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been but choked, and had that moment come to, I have brought you as the compliments of the season—I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine—and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine. Every Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with exly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells. Every Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she replied, O, Un—cle Pum-ble—chook! This is kind! Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he retorted, It’s no more than your merits. And are you bobbish, and how’s Sixpennorth of halfpence? meaning me. We dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts and oranges and apples to the parlour; which was a change very like Joe’s change from his working-clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister was uncomm lively on the present occasion, and indeed was genery more gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I remember Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue, who held a conventiony juvenile position, because she had married Mr. Hubble,—I don’t k at what remote period,—when she was much younger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough, high-shouldered, stooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs extraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some miles of country between them when I met him coming up the lane. Among this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn’t robbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in at an acute angle of the tablecloth, with the table in my chest, and the Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not owed to speak (I didn’t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the scaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure corners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason to be vain. No; I should not have minded that, if they would have left me alone. But they wouldn’t me alone. They seemed to think the lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me, every and then, and stick the point into me. I might have been an unfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched up by these moral goads. It began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle said grace with theatrical declamation,—as it appears to me, something like a religious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third,—and ended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly gful. Upon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low reproachful voice, Do you hear that? Be gful. Especiy, said Mr. Pumblechook, be gful, boy, to them which brought you up by hand. Mrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful presentiment that I should come to no good, asked, Why is it that the young are gful? This moral mystery seemed too much for the company until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying, Natery wicious. Everybody then murmured True! and looked at me in a particularly unpleasant and personal manner. Joe’s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when t was company than when t was none. But he always aided and comforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did so at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if t were any. T being plenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about half a pint. A little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with some severity, and intimated—in the usual hypothetical case of the Church being thrown —what kind of sermon he would have given them. After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he remarked that he considered the subject of the day’s homily, ill chosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when t were so many subjects going about. True again, said Uncle Pumblechook. You’ve hit it, sir! Plenty of subjects going about, for them that k how to put salt upon their tails. That’s what’s wanted. A man needn’t go far to find a subject, if he’s ready with his salt-box. Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short interval of reflection, Look at Pork alone. T’s a subject! If you want a subject, look at Pork! True, sir. Many a moral for the young, returned Mr. Wopsle,—and I k he was going to lug me in, before he said it; might be deduced from that text. (You listen to this, said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.) Joe gave me some more gravy. Swine, pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his fork at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my Christian ,—swine were the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put before us, as an example to the young. (I thought this pretty well in him who had been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.) What is detestable in a pig is more detestable in a boy. But I don’t mean in that , sir, returned Mr. Pumblechook, who had an objection to being interrupted; I mean, enjoying himself with his elders and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and rolling in the lap of . Would he have been doing that? No, he wouldn’t. And what would have been your destination? turning on me again. You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according to the market of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would have come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped you under his left arm, and with his right he would have tucked up his frock to a penknife from out of his waistcoat-pocket, and he would have shed your blood and had your . No bringing up by hand then. Not a bit of it! Joe ered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take. He was a world of trouble to you, ma’am, said Mrs. Hubble, commiserating my sister. Trouble? echoed my sister; trouble? and then entered on a fearful catalogue of the illnesses I had been guilty of, and the s of sleeplessness I had committed, and the high places I had tumbled from, and the low places I had tumbled into, and the injuries I had done myself, and the times she had wished me in my grave, and I had contumaciously refused to go t. I think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with their noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in consequence. Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle’s Roman nose so aggravated me, during the recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it until he howled. But, I had endured up to this time was nothing in comparison with the awful feelings that took possession of me when the pause was broken which ensued upon my sister’s recital, and in which pause everybody had looked at me (as I felt painfully conscious) with indignation and abhorrence. Yet, said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the theme from which they had strayed, Pork—regarded as biled—is rich, too; ain’t it? Have a little brandy, uncle, said my sister. O Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say it was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under the cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate. My sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle, and poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The wretched man trifled with his glass,—took it up, looked at it through the light, put it down,—prolonged my misery. this time Mrs. Joe and Joe were briskly clearing the table for the pie and pudding. I couldn’t keep my eyes him. Always holding tight by the leg of the table with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his glass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the brandy . ly afterwards, the company were seized with unspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning round several times in an apping spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and rushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window, violently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces, and apparently out of his mind. I held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn’t k how I had done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my dreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and surveying the company round as if they had disagreed with him, sank down into his chair with the one significant gasp, Tar! I had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I k he would be worse by and by. I moved the table, like a of the present day, by the vigor of my unseen hold upon it. Tar! cried my sister, in amazement. Why, how ever could Tar come t? But, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn’t hear the word, wouldn’t hear of the subject, imperiously waved it away with his hand, and asked for hot gin and water. My sister, who had begun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself ively in ting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and mixing them. For the time being at least, I was saved. I still held on to the leg of the table, but clutched it with the fervor of gratitude. By degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp and partake of pudding. Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding. partook of pudding. The course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook had begun to beam under the genial influence of gin and water. I began to think I should over the day, when my sister said to Joe, Clean plates,—cold. I clutched the leg of the table again , and pressed it to my bosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and of my soul. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I rey was gone. You must taste, said my sister, addressing the guests with her best grace—you must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious present of Uncle Pumblechook’s! Must they! Let them not hope to taste it! You must k, said my sister, rising, it’s a pie; a savory pork pie. ExpertModernAdvice.com brought to you by Inception Media Group. This editorial email with educational news was sent to {EMAIL}. IMG appreciates your comments and inquiries. 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