temper ing； and I am as much afraid of you。 Go away from me； and let
me pray and cry myself better！' The day passed on； and again the wide
stare stared itself out； and the hot night was on Marseilles； and
through it the caravan of the morning； all dispersed； went their
appointed ways。 And thus ever by day and night； under the sun and under
the stars； climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains；
journeying by land and journeying by sea； ing and going so strangely；
to meet and to act and react on one another； move all we restless
travellers through the pilgrimage of life。
CHAPTER 3。 Home
It was a Sunday evening in London； gloomy； close； and stale。 Maddening
church bells of all degrees of dissonance； sharp and flat； cracked
and clear； fast and slow； made the brick…and…mortar echoes hideous。
Melancholy streets； in a penitential garb of soot； steeped the souls of
the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows； in dire
despondency。 In every thoroughfare； up almost every alley； and down
almost every turning； some doleful bell was throbbing； jerking； tolling；
as if the Plague were in the city and the dead…carts were going round。
Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish
relief to an overworked people。 No pictures； no unfamiliar animals； no
rare plants or flowers； no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient
world……all TABOO with that enlightened strictness； that the ugly South
Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home
again。 Nothing to see but streets； streets； streets。 Nothing to breathe
but streets； streets； streets。 Nothing to change the brooding mind；
or raise it up。 Nothing for the spent toiler to do； but to pare the
monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days； think
what a weary life he led； and make the best of it……or the worst；
according to the probabilities。
At such a happy time； so propitious to the interests of religion and
morality； Mr Arthur Clennam； newly arrived from Marseilles by way of
Dover； and by Dover coach the Blue…eyed Maid； sat in the window of a
coffee…house on Ludgate Hill。 Ten thousand responsible houses surrounded
him； frowning as heavily on the streets they posed； as if they were
every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender's story； who
blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night。 Fifty
thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwholesomely that
fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night； would be
corrupt on Sunday morning； albeit my lord； their county member； was
amazed that they failed to sleep in pany with their butcher's meat。
Miles of close wells and pits of houses； where the inhabitants gasped
for air； stretched far away towards every point of the pass。 Through
the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed； in the place of
a fine fresh river。 What secular want could the million or so of
human beings whose daily labour； six days in the week； lay among these
Arcadian objects； from the sweet sameness of which they had no escape
between the cradle and the grave……what secular want could they possibly
have upon their seventh day？ Clearly they could want nothing but a
stringent policeman。
Mr Arthur Clennam sat in the window of the coffee…house on Ludgate Hill；
counting one of the neighbouring bells； making sentences and burdens of
songs out of it in spite of himself； and wondering how many sick
people it might be the death of in the course of the year。 As the hour
approached； its changes of measure made it more and more exasperating。
At the quarter； it went off into a condition of deadly…lively
importunity； urging the populace in a voluble manner to e to church；
e to church； e to church！ At the ten minutes； it became aware
that the congregation would be scanty； and slowly hammered out in low
spirits； They WON'T e； they WON'T e； they WON'T e！ At the five
minutes； it abandoned hope； and shook every house in the neighbourhood
for three hundred seconds； with one dismal swing per second； as a groan
of despair。
'Thank Heaven！' said Clennam； when the hour struck； and the bell
stopped。
But its sound had revived a long train of miserable Sundays； and the
procession would not stop with the bell； but continued to march on。
'Heaven forgive me；' said he； 'and those who trained me。 How I have
hated this day！'
There was the dreary Sunday of his childhood； when he sat with his hands
before him； scared out of his senses by a horrible tract which menced
business with the poor child by asking him in its title； why he was
going to Perdition？……a piece of curiosity that he really； in a frock and
drawers； was not in a condition to satisfy……and which； for the further
attraction of his infant mind； had a parenthesis in every other line
with some such hiccupping reference as 2 Ep。 Thess。 c。 iii； v。 6 &
7。 There was the sleepy Sunday of his boyhood； when； like a military
deserter； he was marched to chapel by a picquet of teachers three times
a day； morally handcuffed to another boy； and when he would willingly
have bartered two meals of indigestible sermon for another ounce or
two of inferior mutton at his scanty dinner in the flesh。 There was the
interminable Sunday of his nonage； when his mother； stern of face and
unrelenting of heart； would sit all day behind a Bible……bound； like her
own construction of it； in the hardest； barest； and straitest boards；
with one dinted ornament on the cover like the drag of a chain； and a
wrathful sprinkling of red upon the edges of the leaves……as if it； of
all books！ were a fortification against sweetness of temper； natural
affection； and gentle intercourse。 There was the resentful Sunday of a
little later； when he sat down glowering and glooming through the tardy
length of the day； with a sullen sense of injury in his heart； and no
more real knowledge of the beneficent history of the New Testament than
if he had been bred among idolaters。 There was a legion of Sundays；
all days of unserviceable bitterness and mortification； slowly passing
before him。 'Beg pardon； sir；' said a brisk waiter； rubbing the table。
'Wish see bed…room？'
'Yes。 I have just made up my mind to do it。'
'Chaymaid！' cried the waiter。 'Gelen box num seven wish see room！'
'Stay！' said Clennam； rousing himself。 'I was not thinking of what I
said； I answered mechanically。 I am not going to sleep here。 I am going
home。'
'Deed； sir？ Chaymaid！ Gelen box num seven； not go sleep here； gome。'
He sat in the same place as the day died； looking at the dull houses
opposite； and thinking； if the disembodied spirits of former inhabitants
were ever conscious of them； how they must pity themselves for their old
places of imprisonment。 Sometimes a face would appear behind the dingy
glass of a window； and would fade away into the gloom as if it had seen
enough of life and had vanished out of it。 Presently the rain began to
fall in slanting lines between him and those houses； and people began
to collect under cover of the public passage opposite； and to look out
hopelessly at the sky as the rain dropped thicker and faster。 Then wet
umbrellas began to appear； draggled skirts； and mud。 What the mud had
been doing with itself； or where it came from； who could say？ But it
seemed to collect in a moment； as a crowd will； and in five minutes to
have splashed all the sons and daughters of Adam。 The lamplighter was
going his rounds now； and as the fiery jets sprang up under his touch；
one might have fancied them astonished at being suffered to introduce
any show of brightness into such a dismal scene。
Mr Arthur Clennam took up his hat and buttoned his coat； and walked out。
In the country； the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents；
and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful
form of growth or life。 In the city； it developed only foul stale
smells； and was a sickly； lukewarm； dirt…stained； wretched addition to
the gutters。
He crossed by St Paul's and went down； at a long angle； almost to the
water's edge； through some of the crooked and descending streets which
lie （and lay more crookedly and closely then） between the river and
Cheapside。 Passing； now the mouldy hall of some obsolete Worshipful
pany； now the illuminated windows of a Congregationless Church that
seemed to be waiting for some adventurous Belzoni to dig it out and
discover its history； passing silent warehouses and wharves； and here
and there a narrow alley leading to the river； where a wretched little
bill； FOUND DROWNED； was weeping on the wet wall； he came at last to the
house he sought。 An old brick house； so dingy as to be all but black；
standing by itself within a gateway。 Before it； a square court…yard
where a shrub or two and a patch of grass were as rank （which is saying
much） as the iron railings enclosing them were rusty； behind it；
a jumble of roots。 It was a double house； with long； narrow；
heavily…framed windows。 Many years ago； it had had it in its mind to
slide down sideways； it had been propped up； however； and was leaning on
some half…dozen gigantic crutches： which gymnasium for the neighbouring
cats； weather…stained； smoke…blackened； and overgrown with weeds；
appeared in these latter days to be no very sure reliance。
'Nothing changed；' said the traveller； stopping to look round。 'Dark and
miserable as ever。 A light in my mother's window； which seems never to
have been extinguished since I came home twice a year from school； and
dragged my box over this pavement。 Well； well； well！'
He went up to the door； which had a projecting canopy in carved work
of festooned jack…towels and children's heads with water on the brain；
designed after a once…popular monumental pattern； and knocked。 A
shuffling step was soon heard on the stone floor of the hall； and the
door was opened by an old man； bent and dried； but with keen eyes。
He had a candle in his hand； and he held it up for a moment to assist
his keen eyes。 'Ah； Mr Arthur？' he said； without any emotion； 'you are
e at last？ Step in。'
Mr Arthur stepped in and shut the door。
'Your figure is filled out； and set；' said the old man； turning to look
at him with the light raised again； and shaking his head； 'but you don't
e up to your father in my opinion。 Nor yet your mother。'
'How is my mother？'
'She is as she always is now。 Keeps her room when not actually
bedridden； and hasn't been out of it fifteen times in as many years；
Arthur。' They had walked into a spare； meagre dining…room。 The old man
had put the candlestick upon the table； and； supporting his right elbow
with his left hand； was smoothing his leathern jaws while he looked at
the visitor。 The visitor offered his hand。 The old man took it coldly
enough； and seemed to prefer his jaws； to which he returned as soon as
he could。
'I doubt if your mother will approve of your ing home on the Sabbath；
Arthur；' he said； shaking his head warily。
'You wouldn't have me go away again？'
'Oh！ I？ I？ I am not the master。 It's not what _I_ would have。 I have
stood between your father and mother for a number of years。 I don't
pretend to stand between your mother and you。'
'Will you tell her