expense was no consideration. Then, he launched into a general
eulogium on the Commons. What was to be particularly admired
(he said) in the Commons, was its compactness. It was the most
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David Copperfield
conveniently organized place in the world. It was the complete
idea of snugness. It lay in a nutshell. For example: You brought a
divorce case, or a restitution case, into the Consistory. Very good.
You tried it in the Consistory. You made a quiet little round game
of it, among a family group, and you played it out at leisure.
Suppose you were not satisfied with the Consistory, what did you
do then? Why, you went into the Arches. What was the Arches?
The same court, in the same room, with the same bar, and the
same practitioners, but another judge, for there the Consistory
judge could plead any court-day as an advocate. Well, you played
your round game out again. Still you were not satisfied. Very good.
What did you do then? Why, you went to the Delegates. Who were
the Delegates? Why, the Ecclesiastical Delegates were the
advocates without any business, who had looked on at the round
game when it was playing in both courts, and had seen the cards
shuffled, and cut, and played, and had talked to all the players
about it, and now came fresh, as judges, to settle the matter to the
satisfaction of everybody! Discontented people might talk of
corruption in the Commons, closeness in the Commons, and the
necessity of reforming the Commons, said Mr. Spenlow solemnly,
in conclusion; but when the price of wheat per bushel had been
highest, the Commons had been busiest; and a man might lay his
hand upon his heart, and say this to the whole world,—‘Touch the
Commons, and down comes the country!’
I listened to all this with attention; and though, I must say, I had
my doubts whether the country was quite as much obliged to the
Commons as Mr. Spenlow made out, I respectfully deferred to his
opinion. That about the price of wheat per bushel, I modestly felt
was too much for my strength, and quite settled the question. I
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David Copperfield
have never, to this hour, got the better of that bushel of wheat. It
has reappeared to annihilate me, all through my life, in connexion
with all kinds of subjects. I don’t know now, exactly, what it has to
do with me, or what right it has to crush me, on an infinite variety
of occasions; but whenever I see my old friend the bushel brought
in by the head and shoulders (as he always is, I observe), I give up
a subject for lost.
This is a digression. I was not the man to touch the Commons,
and bring down the country. I submissively expressed, by my
silence, my acquiescence in all I had heard from my superior in
years and knowledge; and we talked about “The Stranger” and the
Drama, and the pairs of horses, until we came to Mr. Spenlow’s
gate.
There was a lovely garden to Mr. Spenlow’s house; and though
that was not the best time of the year for seeing a garden, it was so
beautifully kept, that I was quite enchanted. There was a
charming lawn, there were clusters of trees, and there were
perspective walks that I could just distinguish in the dark, arched
over with trellis-work, on which shrubs and flowers grew in the
growing season. ‘Here Miss Spenlow walks by herself,’ I thought.
‘Dear me!’
We went into the house, which was cheerfully lighted up, and
into a hall where there were all sorts of hats, caps, great-coats,
plaids, gloves, whips, and walking-sticks. ‘Where is Miss Dora?’
said Mr. Spenlow to the servant. ‘Dora!’ I thought. ‘What a
beautiful name!’
We turned into a room near at hand (I think it was the identical
breakfast-room, made memorable by the brown East Indian
sherry), and I heard a voice say, ‘Mr. Copperfield, my daughter
Charles Dick"};
