What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this, married to a growling old Scotch Crsus with great flaps of ears? Can this be Julia Mills?
Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never sings Affections Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Crsus, who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her better in the Desert of Sahara.
Or perhaps this is the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower. What Julia calls society, I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me of the Doctor, as so charmingly antique. But when society is the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of Sahara, and had better find the way out.
And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary (somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so influential as in days of yore!
Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant friction of his lawyers wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as I look around me
If Sophy were your clerk, now, Traddles, she would have enough to do!
You may say that, my dear Copperfield! But those were capital days, too, in Holborn Court! Were they not?
When she told you you would be a Judge? But it was not the town talk then!
At all events, says Traddles, if I ever am one
Why, you know you will be.
Well, my dear Copperfield, when I am one, I shall tell the story, as I said I would.
We walk away, arm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with Traddles. It is Sophys birthday; and, on our road, Traddles discourses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.
I really have been able, my dear Copperfield, to do all that I had most at heart. Theres the Reverend Horace promoted to that living at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys receiving the very best education, and distinguishing themselves as steady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls married very comfortably; there are three more living with us; there are three more keeping house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewlers decease; and all of them happy.
Except I suggest.
Except the Beauty, says Traddles. Yes. It was very unfortunate that she should marry such a vagabond. But there was a certain dash and glare about him that caught her. However, now we have got her safe at our house, and got rid of him, we must cheer her up again.
Traddless house is one of the very housesor it easily may have beenwhich he and Sophy used to parcel out, in their evening walks. It is a large house; but Traddles keeps his papers in his dressing- room, and his boots with his papers; and he and Sophy squeeze themselves into upper rooms, reserving
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