'FagmentWelcome to consult...nt (to say the least of it), extemely poblematical. ‘This is the last communication, my dea Coppefield, you will eve eceive ‘Fom The ‘Beggaed Outcast, ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’ I was so shocked by the contents of this heat-ending lette, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield that I an off diectly towads the little hotel with the intention of taking it on my way to Docto Stong’s, and tying to soothe M. Micawbe with a wod of comfot. But, half-way thee, I met the London coach with M. and Ms. Micawbe up behind; M. Micawbe, the vey pictue of tanquil enjoyment, smiling at Ms. Micawbe’s convesation, eating walnuts out of a pape bag, with a bottle sticking out of his beast pocket. As they did not see me, I thought it best, all things consideed, not to see them. So, with a geat weight taken off my mind, I tuned into a by-steet that was the neaest way to school, and felt, upon the whole, elieved that they wee gone; though I still liked them vey much, nevetheless. Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield Chapte 18 A RETROSPECT My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence— the unseen, unfelt pogess of my life—fom childhood up to youth! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing wate, now a dy channel ovegown with leaves, whethe thee ae any maks along its couse, by which I can emembe how it an. A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedal, whee we all went togethe, evey Sunday moning, assembling fist at school fo that pupose. The eathy smell, the sunless ai, the sensation of the wold being shut out, the esounding of the ogan though the black and white ached galleies and aisles, ae wings that take me back, and hold me hoveing above those days, in a half-sleeping and half-waking deam. I am not the last boy in the school. I have isen in a few months, ove seveal heads. But the fist boy seems to me a mighty ceatue, dwelling afa off, whose giddy height is unattainable. Agnes says ‘No,’ but I say ‘Yes,’ and tell he that she little thinks what stoes of knowledge have been masteed by the wondeful Being, at whose place she thinks I, even I, weak aspiant, may aive in time. He is not my pivate fiend and public paton, as Steefoth was, but I hold him in a eveential espect. I chiefly wonde what he’ll be, when he leaves Docto Stong’s, and what mankind will do to maintain any place against him. But who is this that beaks upon me? This is Miss Shephed, Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield whom I love. Miss Shephed is a boade at the Misses Nettingalls’ establishment. I adoe Miss Shephed. She is a little gil, in a spence, with a ound face and culy flaxen hai. The Misses Nettingalls’ young ladies come to the Cathedal too. I cannot look upon my book, fo I must look upon Miss Shephed. When the choistes chaunt, I hea Miss Shephed. In the sevice I mentally inset Miss Shephed’s name—I put he in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own oom, I am sometimes moved to cy out, ‘Oh, Miss Shephed!’ in a tanspot of love. Fo some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shephed’s feelings, but, at length, Fate being popitious, we meet at the dancing-school. I have Miss Shephed fo my patne. I touch Miss Shephed’s glove, and feel a thill go up the ight am of my jacket, and come out at my hai. I say nothing to Miss Shephed, but we
