I thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer,—only it seemed so unlikely,—“Well?You can break his heart.”
“What do you play, boy?” asked Estella of myself, with the greatest disdain.
“Nothing but beggar my neighbour, miss.”
“Beggar him,” said Miss Havisham to Estella. So we sat down to cards.
It was then I began to understand that everything in the room had stopped,like the watch and the clock, a long time ago.I noticed that Miss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had taken it up.As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the dressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it,once white, now yellow, had never been worn.I glanced down at the foot from which the shoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it,once white, now yellow, had been trodden ragged. Without this arrest of everything,this standing still of all the pale decayed objects,not even the withered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have looked so like grave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud.
So she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and trimmings on her bridal dress,looking like earthy paper. I knew nothing then of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies buried in ancient times,which fall to powder in the moment of being distinctly seen; but, I have often thought since,that she must have looked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have struck her to dust.
“He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy!” said Estella with disdain, before our first game was out. “And what coarse hands he has!And what thick boots!”
I had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before;but I began to consider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so strong,that it became infectious, and I caught it.
She won the game, and I dealt. I misdealt, as was only natural,when I knew she was lying in wait for me to do wrong; and she denounced me for a stupid, clumsy labouring-boy.
“You say nothing of her,” remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked on.“She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What do you think of her?”
“I don’t like to say,” I stammered.
“Tell me in my ear,” said Miss Havisham, bending down.
“I think she is very proud,” I replied, in a whisper.
“Anything else?”
“I think she is very pretty.”
“Anything else?”
“I think she is very insulting.” (She was looking at me then with a look of supreme aversion.)
“Anything else?”
“I think I should like to go home.”
“And never see her again, though she is so pretty?”
“I am not sure that I shouldn’t like to see her again, but I should like to go home now.”
“You shall go soon,” said Miss Havisham, aloud. “Play the game out.”
Saving for the one weird smile at first,I should have felt almost sure that Miss Havisham’s face could not smile.It had dropped into a watchful and brooding expression,—most likely when all the things about her had become transfixed,—and it looked as if nothing could ever lift it up again. Her chest had dropped,so that she stooped; and her voice had dropped, so that she spoke low,and with a dead lull upon her; altogether, she had the appearance of having dropped body and soul,within and without, under the weight of a crushing blow.
I played the game to an end with Estella, and she beggared me.She threw the cards down on the table when she had won them all,as if she despised them for having been won of me.
“When shall I have you here again?” said Miss Havisham. “Let me think.”
I was beginning to remind her that to-day was Wednesday,when she checked me with her former impatient movement of the fingers of her right hand.
“There, there!I know nothing of days of the week; I know nothing of weeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat,and let him roam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip.”
I followed the candle down, as I had followed the candle up,and she stood it in the place where we had found it. Until she opened the side entrance,I had fancied, without thinking about it, that it must necessarily be night-time.The rush of the daylight quite confounded me,and made me feel as if I had been in the candlelight of the strange room many hours.
“You are to wait here, you boy,” said Estella; and disappeared and closed the door.
I took the opportunity of being alone in the courtyard to look at my coarse hands and my common boots.My opinion of those accessories was not favourable. They had never troubled me before,but they troubled me now, as vulgar appendages.I determined to ask Joe why he had ever taught me to call those picture-cards Jacks,which ought to be called knaves. I wished Joe had been rather more genteelly brought up, and then I should have been so too.
She came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer.She put the mug down on the stones of the yard,and gave me the bread and meat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in disgrace.I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry,—I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart—God knows what its name was,—that tears started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there,the girl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of them.This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her: so,she gave a contemptuous toss—but with a sense, I thought,of having made too sure that I was so wounded—and left me.
But when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face in,and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my sleeve against the wall there,and leaned my forehead on it and cried. As I cried, I kicked the wall,and took a hard twist at my hair; so bitter were my feelings,and so sharp was the smart without a name, that needed counteraction.
My sister’s bringing up had made me sensitive.In the little world in which children have their existence whosoever brings them up,there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice.It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small,and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many hands high, according to scale,as a big-boned Irish hunter. Within myself, I had sustained, from my babyhood,a perpetual conflict with injustice. I had known, from the time when I could speak, that my sister,in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me.I had cherished a profound conviction that her bringing me up by hand gave her no right to bring me up by jerks.Through all my punishments, disgraces, fasts, and vigils, and other penitential performances,I had nursed this assurance; and to my communing so much with it,in a solitary and unprotected way, I in great part refer the fact that I was morally timid and very sensitive.
I got rid of my injured feelings for the time by kicking them into the brewery wall,and twisting them out of my hair, and then I smoothed my face with my sleeve,and came from behind the gate. The bread and meat were acceptable,and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon in spirits to look about me.
To be sure, it was a deserted place, down to the pigeon-house in the brewery-yard,which had been blown crooked on its pole by some high wind,and would have made the pigeons think themselves at sea,if there had been any pigeons there to be rocked by it. But there were no pigeons in the dove-cot,no horses in the stable, no pigs in the sty, no malt in the storehouse,no smells of grains and beer in the copper or the vat.All the uses and scents of the brewery might have evaporated with its last reek of smoke.In a by-yard, there was a wilderness of empty casks,which had a certain sour remembrance of better days lingering about them;but it was too sour to be accepted as a sample of the beer that was gone,—and in this respect I remember those recluses as being like most others.
Behind the furthest end of the brewery, was a rank garden with an old wall;not so high but that I could struggle up and hold on long enough to look over it,and see that the rank garden was the garden of the house,and that it was overgrown with tangled weeds,but that there was a track upon the green and yellow paths, as if some one sometimes walked there,and that Estella was walking away from me even then. But she seemed to be everywhere.For when I yielded to the temptation presented by the casks, and began to walk on them,I saw _her_ walking on them at the end of the yard of casks. She had her back towards me,and held her pretty brown hair spread out in her two hands, and never looked round,and passed out of my view directly. So, in the brewery itself,—by which I mean the large paved lofty place in which they used to make the beer,and where the brewing utensils still were. When I first went into it, and,rather oppressed by its gloom, stood near the door looking about me,I saw her pass among the extinguished fires, and ascend some light iron stairs,and go out by a gallery high overhead, as if she were going out into the sky.
It was in this place, and at this moment, that a strange thing happened to my fancy.I thought it a strange thing then, and I thought it a stranger thing long afterwards.I turned my eyes—a little dimmed by looking up at the frosty light—towards a great wooden beam in a low nook of the building near me on my right hand,and I saw a figure hanging there by the neck. A figure all in yellow white,with but one shoe to the feet; and it hung so,that I could see that the faded trimmings of the dress were like earthy paper,and that the face was Miss Havisham’s, with a movement going over the whole countenance as if she were trying to call to me.In the terror of seeing the figure, and in the terror of being certain that it had not been there a moment before,I at first ran from it, and then ran towards it.And my terror was greatest of all when I found no figure there.
Nothing less than the frosty light of the cheerful sky,the sight of people passing beyond the bars of the court-yard gate,and the reviving influence of the rest of the bread and meat and beer, would have brought me round.Even with those aids, I might not have come to myself as soon as I did,but that I saw Estella approaching with the keys, to let me out.She would have some fair reason for looking down upon me, I thought, if she saw me frightened; and she would have no fair reason.
She gave me a triumphant glance in passing me,as if she rejoiced that my hands were so coarse and my boots were so thick,and she opened the gate, and stood holding it. I was passing out without looking at her,when she touched me with a taunting hand.
“Why don’t you cry?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“You do,” said she. “You have been crying till you are half blind, and you are near crying again now.”
She laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked the gate upon me. I went straight to Mr.Pumblechook’s, and was immensely relieved to find him not at home. So,leaving word with the shopman on what day I was wanted at Miss Havisham’s again,I set off on the four-mile walk to our forge; pondering, as I went along, on all I had seen,and deeply revolving that I was a common labouring-boy; that my hands were coarse;that my boots were thick; that I had fallen into a despicable habit of calling knaves Jacks;that I was much more ignorant than I had considered myself last night,and generally that I was in a low-lived bad way.
Chapter IX.
When I reached home, my sister was very curious to know all about Miss Havisham’s,and asked a number of questions. And I soon found myself getting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the neck and the small of the back,and having my face ignominiously shoved against the kitchen wall,because I did not answer those questions at sufficient length.
If a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other young people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden in mine,—which I consider probable, as I have no particular reason to suspect myself of having been a monstrosity,—it is the key to many reservations. I felt convinced that if I described Miss Havisham’s as my eyes had seen it,I should not be understood. Not only that,but I felt convinced that Miss Havisham too would not be understood;and although she was perfectly incomprehensible to me,I entertained an impression that there would be something coarse and treacherous in my dragging her as she really was (to say nothing of Miss Estella) before the contemplation of Mrs. Joe. Consequently, I said as little as I could, and had my face shoved against the kitchen wall.
The worst of it was that that bullying old Pumblechook,preyed upon by a devouring curiosity to be informed of all I had seen and heard,came gaping over in his chaise-cart at tea-time, to have the details divulged to him.And the mere sight of the torment, with his fishy eyes and mouth open,his sandy hair inquisitively on end, and his waistcoat heaving with windy arithmetic, made me vicious in my reticence.
“Well, boy,” Uncle Pumblechook began, as soon as he was seated in the chair of honour by the fire. “How did you get on up town?”
I answered, “Pretty well, sir,” and my sister shook her fist at me.
“Pretty well?” Mr. Pumblechook repeated. “Pretty well is no answer. Tell us what you mean by pretty well, boy?”
Whitewash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy perhaps. Anyhow,with whitewash from the wall on my forehead, my obstinacy was adamantine.I reflected for some time, and then answered as if I had discovered a new idea, “I mean pretty well.”
My sister with an exclamation of impatience was going to fly at me,—I had no shadow of defence,for Joe was busy in the forge,—when Mr. Pumblechook interposed with “No!Don’t lose your temper. Leave this lad to me, ma’am; leave this lad to me.” Mr.Pumblechook then turned me towards him, as if he were going to cut my hair, and said,—
“First (to get our thoughts in order): Forty-three pence?”
I calculated the consequences of replying “Four Hundred Pound,” and finding them against me,went as near the answer as I could—which was somewhere about eightpence off. Mr.Pumblechook then put me through my pence-table from “twelve pence make one shilling,” up to “forty pence make three and fourpence,” and then triumphantly demanded, as if he had done for me, “_Now!_ How much is forty-three pence?” To which I replied, after a long interval of reflection, “I don’t know.” And I was so aggravated that I almost doubt if I did know.
Mr. Pumblechook worked his head like a screw to screw it out of me, and said,“Is forty-three pence seven and sixpence three fardens, for instance?”
“Yes!” said I. And although my sister instantly boxed my ears,it was highly gratifying to me to see that the answer spoilt his joke, and brought him to a dead stop.
“Boy!What like is Miss Havisham?” Mr. Pumblechook began again when he had recovered;folding his arms tight on his chest and applying the screw.
“Very tall and dark,” I told him.
“Is she, uncle?” asked my sister.
Mr. Pumblechook winked assent; from which I at once inferred that he had never seen Miss Havisham, for she was nothing of the kind.
“Good!” said Mr. Pumblechook conceitedly. (“This is the way to have him!We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum?”)
“I am sure, uncle,” returned Mrs. Joe, “I wish you had him always; you know so well how to deal with him.”
“Now, boy!What was she a-doing of, when you went in today?” asked Mr. Pumblechook.
“She was sitting,” I answered, “in a black velvet coach.”
Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another—as they well might—and both repeated, “In a black velvet coach?”
“Yes,” said I. “And Miss Estella—that’s her niece,I think—handed her in cake and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate.And we all had cake and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat mine, because she told me to.”
“Was anybody else there?” asked Mr. Pumblechook.
“Four dogs,” said I.
“Large or small?”
“Immense,” said I. “And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver basket.”
Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter amazement.I was perfectly frantic,—a reckless witness under the torture,—and would have told them anything.
“Where _was_ this coach, in the name of gracious?” asked my sister.
“In Miss Havisham’s room.” They stared again. “But there weren’t any horses to it.” I added this saving clause, in the moment of rejecting four richly caparisoned coursers which I had had wild thoughts of harnessing.
“Can this be possible, uncle?” asked Mrs. Joe. “What can the boy mean?”
“I’ll tell you, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “My opinion is, it’s a sedan-chair. She’s flighty,you know,—very flighty,—quite flighty enough to pass her days in a sedan-chair.”
“Did you ever see her in it, uncle?” asked Mrs. Joe.
“How could I,” he returned, forced to the admission, “when I never see her in my life?Never clapped eyes upon her!”
“Goodness, uncle!And yet you have spoken to her?”
“Why, don’t you know,” said Mr. Pumblechook, testily, “that when I have been there,I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the door has stood ajar,and she has spoke to me that way. Don’t say you don’t know _that_, Mum. Howsever,the boy went there to play. What did you play at, boy?”
“We played with flags,” I said. (I beg to observe that I think of myself with amazement,when I recall the lies I told on this occasion.)
“Flags!” echoed my sister.
“Yes,” said I. “Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one,and Miss Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars, out at the coach-window.And then we all waved our swords and hurrahed.”
“Swords!” repeated my sister. “Where did you get swords from?”
“Out of a cupboard,” said I. “And I saw pistols in it,—and jam,—and pills.And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up with candles.”
“That’s true, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook, with a grave nod. “That’s the state of the case,for that much I’ve seen myself.” And then they both stared at me, and I,with an obtrusive show of artlessness on my countenance, stared at them,and plaited the right leg of my trousers with my right hand.
If they had asked me any more questions, I should undoubtedly have betrayed myself,for I was even then on the point of mentioning that there was a balloon in the yard,and should have hazarded the statement but for my invention being divided between that phenomenon and a bear in the brewery.They were so much occupied, however, in discussing the marvels I had already presented for their consideration,that I escaped. The subject still held them when Joe came in from his work to have a cup of tea.To whom my sister, more for the relief of her own mind than for the gratification of his, related my pretended experiences.
Now, when I saw Joe open his blue eyes and roll them all round the kitchen in helpless amazement,I was overtaken by penitence; but only as regarded him,—not in the least as regarded the other two.Towards Joe, and Joe only, I considered myself a young monster,while they sat debating what results would come to me from Miss Havisham’s acquaintance and favour.They had no doubt that Miss Havisham would “do something” for me;their doubts related to the form that something would take. My sister stood out for “property.” Mr.Pumblechook was in favour of a handsome premium for binding me apprentice to some genteel trade,—say, the corn and seed trade, for instance. Joe fell into the deepest disgrace with both,for offering the bright suggestion that I might only be presented with one of the dogs who had fought for the veal-cutlets.“If a fool’s head can’t express better opinions than that,” said my sister,“and you have got any work to do, you had better go and do it.” So he went.
After Mr. Pumblechook had driven off, and when my sister was washing up,I stole into the forge to Joe, and remained by him until he had done for the night. Then I said,“Before the fire goes out, Joe, I should like to tell you something.”
“Should you, Pip?” said Joe, drawing his shoeing-stool near the forge. “Then tell us. What is it, Pip?”
“Joe,” said I, taking hold of his rolled-up shirt sleeve,and twisting it between my finger and thumb, “you remember all that about Miss Havisham’s?”
“Remember?” said Joe. “I believe you!Wonderful!”
“It’s a terrible thing, Joe; it ain’t true.”
“What are you telling of, Pip?” cried Joe, falling back in the greatest amazement. “You don’t mean to say it’s—”
“Yes I do; it’s lies, Joe.”
“But not all of it?Why sure you don’t mean to say, Pip, that there was no black welwet co—eh?” For, I stood shaking my head. “But at least there was dogs, Pip?Come, Pip,” said Joe, persuasively, “if there warn’t no weal-cutlets, at least there was dogs?”
“No, Joe.”
“A dog?” said Joe. “A puppy?Come?”
“No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind.”
As I fixed my eyes hopelessly on Joe, Joe contemplated me in dismay. “Pip, old chap!This won’t do, old fellow!I say!Where do you expect to go to?”
“It’s terrible, Joe; ain’t it?”
“Terrible?” cried Joe. “Awful!What possessed you?”
“I don’t know what possessed me, Joe,” I replied, letting his shirt sleeve go,and sitting down in the ashes at his feet, hanging my head;“but I wish you hadn’t taught me to call Knaves at cards Jacks;and I wish my boots weren’t so thick nor my hands so coarse.”
And then I told Joe that I felt very miserable,and that I hadn’t been able to explain myself to Mrs. Joe and Pumblechook, who were so rude to me,and that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham’s who was dreadfully proud,and that she had said I was common, and that I knew I was common,and that I wished I was not common, and that the lies had come of it somehow, though I didn’t know how.
This was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal with as for me.But Joe took the case altogether out of the region of metaphysics, and by that means vanquished it.
“There’s one thing you may be sure of, Pip,” said Joe, after some rumination, “namely,that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn’t ought to come,and they come from the father of lies, and work round to the same. Don’t you tell no more of ’em,Pip. _That_ ain’t the way to get out of being common, old chap. And as to being common,I don’t make it out at all clear. You are oncommon in some things. You’re oncommon small. Likewise you’re a oncommon scholar.”
“No, I am ignorant and backward, Joe.”
“Why, see what a letter you wrote last night!Wrote in print even!I’ve seen letters—Ah!and from gentlefolks!—that I’ll swear weren’t wrote in print,” said Joe.
“I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It’s only that.”
“Well, Pip,” said Joe, “be it so or be it son’t,you must be a common scholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope!The king upon his throne, with his crown upon his ed,can’t sit and write his acts of Parliament in print, without having begun,when he were a unpromoted Prince, with the alphabet.—Ah!” added Joe, with a shake of the head that was full of meaning, “and begun at A too,and worked his way to Z. And _I_ know what that is to do, though I can’t say I’ve exactly done it.”
There was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged me.
“Whether common ones as to callings and earnings,” pursued Joe, reflectively,“mightn’t be the better of continuing for to keep company with common ones,instead of going out to play with oncommon ones,—which reminds me to hope that there were a flag, perhaps?”
“No, Joe.”
“(I’m sorry there weren’t a flag, Pip). Whether that might be or mightn’t be,is a thing as can’t be looked into now, without putting your sister on the Rampage;and that’s a thing not to be thought of as being done intentional. Lookee here, Pip,at what is said to you by a true friend. Which this to you the true friend say.If you can’t get to be oncommon through going straight,you’ll never get to do it through going crooked. So don’t tell no more on ’em, Pip, and live well and die happy.”
“You are not angry with me, Joe?”
“No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of a stunning and outdacious sort,—alluding to them which bordered on weal-cutlets and dog-fighting,—a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip, their being dropped into your meditations,when you go upstairs to bed. That’s all, old chap, and don’t never do it no more.”
When I got up to my little room and said my prayers, I did not forget Joe’s recommendation,and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and unthankful state,that I thought long after I laid me down, how common Estella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith;how thick his boots, and how coarse his hands.I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting in the kitchen,and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen,and how Miss Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen,but were far above the level of such common doings.I fell asleep recalling what I “used to do” when I was at Miss Havisham’s;as though I had been there weeks or months, instead of hours;and as though it were quite an old subject of remembrance,instead of one that had arisen only that day.
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life.Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been.Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold,of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you,but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
Chapter X.
The felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke,that the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to get out of Biddy everything she knew.In pursuance of this luminous conception I mentioned to Biddy when I went to Mr.Wopsle’s great-aunt’s at night, that I had a particular reason for wishing to get on in life,and that I should feel very much obliged to her if she would impart all her learning to me. Biddy,who was the most obliging of girls, immediately said she would,and indeed began to carry out her promise within five minutes.
The Educational scheme or Course established by Mr.Wopsle’s great-aunt may be resolved into the following synopsis.The pupils ate apples and put straws down one another’s backs, until Mr.Wopsle’s great-aunt collected her energies,and made an indiscriminate totter at them with a birch-rod.After receiving the charge with every mark of derision,the pupils formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand to hand.The book had an alphabet in it, some figures and tables, and a little spelling,—that is to say,it had had once. As soon as this volume began to circulate, Mr.Wopsle’s great-aunt fell into a state of coma, arising either from sleep or a rheumatic paroxysm.The pupils then entered among themselves upon a competitive examination on the subject of Boots,with the view of ascertaining who could tread the hardest upon whose toes.This mental exercise lasted until Biddy made a rush at them and distributed three defaced Bibles (shaped as if they had been unskilfully cut off the chump end of something), more illegibly printed at the best than any curiosities of literature I have since met with, speckled all over with ironmould, and having various specimens of the insect world smashed between their leaves. This part of the Course was usually lightened by several single combats between Biddy and refractory students. When the fights were over, Biddy gave out the number of a page, and then we all read aloud what we could,—or what we couldn’t—in a frightful chorus; Biddy leading with a high, shrill, monotonous voice, and none of us having the least notion of, or reverence for, what we were reading about. When this horrible din had lasted a certain time, it mechanically awoke Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt, who staggered at a boy fortuitously, and pulled his ears. This was understood to terminate the Course for the evening, and we emerged into the air with shrieks of intellectual victory. It is fair to remark that there was no prohibition against any pupil’s entertaining himself with a slate or even with the ink (when there was any), but that it was not easy to pursue that branch of study in the winter season, on account of the little general shop in which the classes were holden—and which was also Mr. Wopsle’s great-aunt’s sitting-room and bedchamber—being but faintly illuminated through the agency of one low-spirited dip-candle and no snuffers.
It appeared to me that it would take time to become uncommon, under these circumstances:nevertheless, I resolved to try it, and that very evening Biddy entered on our special agreement,by imparting some information from her little catalogue of Prices, under the head of moist sugar,and lending me, to copy at home, a large old English D which she had imitated from the heading of some newspaper,and which I supposed, until she told me what it was, to be a design for a buckle.
Of course there was a public-house in the village,and of course Joe liked sometimes to smoke his pipe there.I had received strict orders from my sister to call for him at the Three Jolly Bargemen,that evening, on my way from school, and bring him home at my peril. To the Three Jolly Bargemen, therefore, I directed my steps.
There was a bar at the Jolly Bargemen, with some alarmingly long chalk scores in it on the wall at the side of the door,which seemed to me to be never paid off. They had been there ever since I could remember,and had grown more than I had. But there was a quantity of chalk about our country,and perhaps the people neglected no opportunity of turning it to account.