Swidger, George. Eldest son of old Philip Swidger; a dying man, repentant of all the wrong he has done and the sorrow he has caused during a career of forty or fifty years, but suddenly changed. by seeing Redlaw at his bedside, into a bold and callous ruffian, who dies with an oath on his lips. (Ch. ii.)

Swidger, Milly. Wife of William Swidger; an embodiment of goodness, gentle consideration, love, and domesticity. (Ch. i-iii.) See REDLAW, MR.

Swidger, Philip. A superannuated custodian of the institution in which Mr. Redlaw is a lecturer. He is a happy and venerable old man of eighty-seven years of age, who has a most remarkable memory. When, however, at the bedside of his dying son, he meets Redlaw (who has just closed the bargain with the ghost, in cousequence of which he causes forgetfulness in others wherever he goes), he all at once grows weak-minded and petulant; but, when he once more comes within the influence of his good daughter Milly, he recovers all his recollections of the past, and is quite himself again. (Ch. i-iii.) See REDLAW.

Swidger, William. His youngest son; servant to Redlaw, and husband to Milly; a fresh-colored, busy, good-hearted man, who, like his father and others, is temporarily transformed into a very different sort of person by coming in contact with his master after "the ghost's bargain" is concluded. (Ch. i-iii.) See REDLAW. Tetterby, Mr. Adolphus. A newsman, with almost any number of small children, — usually an unselfish, good-natured, yielding little race, but changed for a time, as well as himself, into the exact opposite by Mr. Redlaw. (Ch. ii, iii.)

Tetterby, Mrs. Sophia. His wife, called by himself his "little woman." "Considered as an individual, she was rather remarkable for being robust and portly; but, considered with reference to her husband, her dimensions became magnificent." (Ch. ii, iii.) Tetterby, 'Dolphus. Their eldest son, aged ten: he is a newspaper boy at a railway station. (Ch. ii, iii.)

His juvenility might have been at some loss for a harmless outlet in this early application to traffic, but for a fortunate discovery he made of a means of entertaining himself, and of dividing the long day into stages of interest, with out neglecting business. This ingenious invention, remarkable, like many great discoveries, for its simplicity, consisted in varying the first vowel in the word "paper," and substituting in its stead, at different periods of the day, all the other vowels in grammatical order. Thus, before daylight in the winter-time he went to and fro, in his little oilskin cap and cape and his big comforter, pier cing the heavy air with his cry of "Morn-ing pa-per!" which, about an hour

before noon, changed to "Morn-ing pep-per!" which, at about two, changed to "Morn-ing pip-per!" which, in a couple of hours, changed to "Morn-ing popper!" and so declined with the sun into "Eve-ning pup-per!" to the great relief and comfort of this young gentleman's spirits.

Tetterby, Johnny. Their second son; a patient, much-enduring child, whose special duty it is to take care of the baby. (Ch. ii, iii.)

Tetterby, Sally. A large, heavy infant, always cutting teeth. (Ch. ii, iii.)

...

It was a very Moloch of a baby, on whose insatiate altar the whole existence of this particular young brother [Johnny] was offered up a daily sacrifice. Its personality may be said to have consisted in its never being quiet in any one place for five consecutive minutes, and never going to sleep when required. It roved from door-step to door-step in the arms of little Johnny Tetterby, and lagged heavily at the rear of troops of juveniles who followed the tumblers or the monkey, and came up, all on one side, a little too late for every thing that was attractive, from Monday morning until Saturday night. Wherever childhood congregated to play, there was little Moloch making Johnny fag and toil. Wherever Johnny desired to stay, little Moloch became fractious, and would not remain. Whenever Johnny wanted to go out, Moloch was asleep, and must be watched. Whenever Johnny wanted to stay at home, Moloch was awake, and must be taken out. Yet Johnny was verily persuaded that it was a faultless baby, without its peer in the realm of England; and was quite content to catch meek glimpses of things in general from behind its skirts, or over its limp flapping bor net, and to go staggering about with it like a very little porter with a very large parcel, which was not directed to anybody, and could never be deliv ered anywhere.

The Personal History of David Copperfield the Younger.

THIS work, which is by many considered to be Dickens's masterpiece, was originally brought out under the following title: "The Personal History, Adven tures, Experiences, and Observations of David Copperfield the Younger, of Blun. derstone Rookery (which he never meant to be published on any account)." It was issued in twenty monthly parts, with two illustrations by “Phiz ” (Hablot K. Browne) in each part. The first number appeared May 1, 1849; and the preface was dated October, 1850. In it the author thus spoke of his work:

Of all my books, I like this the best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond parent to every child of my fancy, and that no one can ever love that family as dearly as I love them; but, like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favorite child, and his name is DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Mr. Dickens's affection for his child was easily accounted for. It was at once seen that D. C. was only C. D. reversed, and that the story must be in several important respects autobiographic; for the hero, like the author, was employed in a lawyer's office, then turned parliamentary reporter, and finally became a successful novelist. But that the painful struggles and experiences of Copperfield's boyhood were a mere transcript of the writer's own sufferings and feelings was not fully known until the publication of Forster's "Life of Dickens." Yet such was the case.

For the poor little lad — with good ability and a most sensitive nature, turned at the age et ten into a "laboring hind" in the service of "Murdstone and Grinby," and conscious already of what made it seem very strange to him that he could so easily have been hrown away at such an age- was indeed himself. His was the secret agony of soul at inding himself" companion to Mick Walker and Mealy Potatoes; " and has the tears that mingled with the water in which he and they rinsed and washed out bottles. It had all ❤een written as fact, before he thought of any other use for it; and it was not antil several months later when the fancy of "David Copperfield," itself suggested by what he has

BO written of his early troubles, began to take shape in his mind-that he abandoned his Arst intention of writing his own life. Those warehouse experiences fell then so aptly Into the subject he had chosen, that he could not resist the temptation of immediately using them; and the manuscript recording them, which was but the first portion of what he had designed to write, was embodied in the substance of the e.eventh and earlier chepters of his novel.

CHARACTERS INTRODUCED.

Adams. Head boy at Doctor Strong's; affable and good-humored, and with a turn for mathematics. (Ch. xvi, xviii.)

Babley, Richard, called MR. DICK. A mild lunatic, and a protége of Miss Betsey Trotwood's, who insists that he is not mad.

"He had a favorite sister," said my aunt, -66 - "a good creature, and very kind to him: but she did what they all do, took a husband; and he did what they all do,- made her wretched. It had such an effect upon the mind of Mr. Dick, (that's not madness, I hope!) that, combined with his fear of his brother and his sense of his unkindness, it threw him into a fever. That was before he came to me; but the recollection of it is oppressive to him even now. Did he say any thing to you about King Charles the First, child?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Ah!" said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a little vexed. "That's his allegorical way of expressing it. He connects his illness with great disturbance and agitation, naturally; and that's the figure, or the simile, or whatever it's called, which he chooses to use. And why should n't he, if he thinks proper?"

I said, "Certainly, aunt."

"It's not a business-like way of speaking," said my aunt, "nor a worldly way. I am aware of that; and that's the reason why I insist upon it that there sha'n't be a word about it in his memorial."

-

"Is it a memorial about his own history that he is writing, aunt?" "Yes, child," said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. "He is memorializing the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody or other, one of those people, at all events, who are paid to be memorialized, about his affairs. I suppose it will go in one of these days. He has n't been able to draw it up yet, without introducing that mode of expressing himself; but it don't signify; it keeps him employed."

In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for upwards of ten years endeavoring to keep King Charles the First out of the memorial; but he had been constantly getting into it, and was there now.

(Ch. xiii-xv, xvii, xix, xxxiv, xxxvi, xxxviii, xlii, xliii, xlv, xlix, lii, liv, lx, lxii, lxiv.)

Bailey, Captain. An admirer of the eldest Miss Larkins. (Ch. xviii.)

Barkis, Mr. A carrier who takes David Copperfield from Blun derstone to Yarmouth, on his first being sent away to school. As they jog along, Copperfield asks Mr. Barkis if they are going no farther than Yarmouth together.

That's about it," said the carrier. "And there I shall take you to the stage-cutch; and the stage-cutch, that 'll take you to wherever it is."

As this was a great deal for the carrier to say, -he being of a phlegmatic temperament, and not at all conversational. I offered him a cake as a mark of attention, which he ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant; and which made no more impression on his big face than it would have done on an elephant's.

"Did she make 'em, now?" said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward, in his slouching way, on the footboard of the cart, with an arm on each knee. "Peggotty, do you mean, sir?"

"Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking."

"Do she, though?" said Mr. Barkis.

He made up his mouth as if to whistle; but he did n't whistle. He sat looking at the horse's ears as if he saw something new there, and sat so for a considerable time. By and by, he said,—

"No sweethearts, I b'lieve?"

"Sweetmeats, did you say, Mr. Barkis?" For I thought he wanted something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that description of refresh

ment.

“Hearts,” said Mr. Barkis,—“ sweethearts: no person walks with her?" "With Peggotty?"

"Ah!" he said. -"her."

"Oh, no! She never had a sweetheart."

"Did n't she, though?" said Mr. Barkis.

Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he did n't whistle, but sat looking at the horse's ears.

"So she makes," said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of reflection, “all the apple-parsties, and does all the cooking; do she?"

I replied that such was the fact.

"Well, I'll tell you what," said Mr. Barkis. "P'raps you might be writin' to her?"

"I shall certainly write to her," I rejoined.

"Ah!" he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. "Well! If you was writin' to her, p'raps you'd recollect to say that Barkis was willin'; would you?"

"That Barkis was willing," I repeated innocently. "Is that all the mes. sage?"

"Ye-es," he said, considering. "Ye-es: Barkis is willin'."

"But you will be at Blunderstone again to-morrow, Mr. Barkis, I said faltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it then," and could give your own message so much better."

As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of his head, and once more confirmed his previous request by saying with profound gravity, “Barki Is willin'; that's the message," I readily undertook its transmission. While I was waiting for the coach in the hotel at Yarmouth, that very afternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and an inkstand, and wrote a note to Peggotty, which