in its time; and
dust and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
     Mr  Dombey is a white-haired gentleman, whose face bears heavy marks of
care and suffering; but they  are traces  of a  storm that has passed on for
ever, and left a clear evening in its track.
     Ambitious projects trouble him no  more.  His  only  pride  is  in  his
daughter and her husband. He has  a silent, thoughtful, quiet manner, and is
always with his daughter. Miss Tox is not infrequently of  the family party,
and is quite devoted to  it, and  a  great favourite.  Her admiration of her
once stately patron is, and has been ever since the morning of her  shock in
Princess's Place, platonic, but not weakened in the least.
     Nothing  has drifted to  him  from  the wreck of  his fortunes,  but  a
certain  annual sum  that comes he  knows not how, with an earnest  entreaty
that he will not seek to discover, and with the assurance that it is a debt,
and an act  of reparation. He has  consulted with his old  clerk about this,
who is clear it  may be  honourably accepted, and has no doubt it arises out
of some forgotten transaction in the times of the old House.
     That hazel-eyed bachelor,  a bachelor no  more, is married  now, and to
the sister of the grey-haired Junior. He visits his old chief sometimes, but
seldom.  There  is a reason in  the greyhaired  Junior's history, and  yet a
stronger reason  in  his  name,  why  he  should keep  retired from  his old
employer; and as he lives with his sister and her husband,  they participate
in that retirement.  Walter  sees them  sometimes  -  Florence too - and the
pleasant house resounds with profound duets arranged for the Piano-Forte and
Violoncello, and with the labours of Harmonious Blacksmiths.
     And how goes the wooden Midshipman in these changed days? Why, here  he
still is,  right  leg foremost,  hard at work upon  the hackney coaches, and
more on the alert than  ever, being newly painted from his cocked hat to his
buckled  shoes; and up above  him,  in golden  characters, these names shine
refulgent, GILLS AND CUTTLE.
     Not another stroke  of business does the  Midshipman achieve beyond his
usual  easy trade. But they do say, in a circuit of some half-mile round the
blue umbrella in  Leadenhall Market, that some of Mr Gills's old investments
are  coming out wonderfully well; and that instead of  being behind the time
in those respects, as he supposed, he was, in truth, a little before it, and
had to  wait the fulness of the time and the design. The whisper is  that Mr
Gills's money has begun to turn itself, and that  it  is turning itself over
and over pretty briskly. Certain it is that, standing  at  his shop-door, in
his  coffee-coloured  suit, with  his  chronometer  in  his pocket,  and his
spectacles on his forehead, he don't appear to  break his heart at customers
not coming, but  looks very jovial and contented, though full as misty as of
yore.
     As to his partner, Captain Cuttle,  there is a fiction of a business in
the Captain's mind which  is  better than  any  reality.  The Captain is  as
satisfied of the  Midshipman's importance to  the commerce and navigation of
the country, as he could possibly be,  if no ship  left  the Port  of London
without the Midshipman's assistance. His  delight in his  own name over  the
door, is inexhaustible. He  crosses the street, twenty times a day, to  look
at it  from  the other  side  of  the  way; and  invariably  says,  on these
occasions,  'Ed'ard Cuttle,  my lad, if  your mother could ha' know'd as you
would ever be a man o' science, the  good old  creetur would  ha' been  took
aback in-deed!'
     But  here  is  Mr  Toots  descending  on  the  Midshipman  with violent
rapidity, and Mr  Toots's face is  very  red  as he bursts  into the  little
parlour.
     'Captain Gills,' says Mr Toots, 'and  Mr Sols, I am happy to inform you
that Mrs Toots has had an increase to her family.
     'And it does her credit!' cries the Captain.
     'I give you joy, Mr Toots!' says old Sol.
     'Thank'ee,' chuckles Mr Toots, 'I'm  very much obliged to  you.  I knew
that  you'd be  glad  to hear,  and so  I came down myself. We're positively
getting on,  you know.  There's  Florence, and Susan, and now here's another
little stranger.'
     'A female stranger?' inquires the Captain.
     'Yes, Captain Gills,'  says Mr Toots, 'and I'm glad of  it. The oftener
we can repeat that most extraordinary woman, my opinion is, the better!'
     'Stand by!' says the  Captain, turning  to the old  case-bottle with no
throat - for it is evening, and the Midshipman's usual moderate provision of
pipes and glasses  is on the board. 'Here's to her, and may she have ever so
many more!'
     'Thank'ee,  Captain  Gills,' says the delighted Mr  Toots. 'I echo  the
sentiment.  If  you'll  allow  me, as  my so doing  cannot  be unpleasant to
anybody, under the circumstances, I think I'll take a pipe.'
     Mr Toots begins to smoke, accordingly, and in the openness of his heart
is very loquacious.
     'Of all the remarkable instances that  that  delightful woman has given
of  her excellent sense, Captain Gills and Mr Sols,' said Mr Toots, 'I think
none is more remarkable than the perfection with which she has understood my
devotion to Miss Dombey.'
     Both his auditors assent.
     'Because you know,' says Mr Toots, 'I have never changed  my sentiments
towards  Miss Dombey.  They are the same  as  ever. She  is  the same bright
vision to me, at present, that she was before I made Walters's acquaintance.
When Mrs Toots and myself first began  to talk of - in  short, of the tender
passion, you know, Captain Gills.'
     'Ay, ay, my lad,' says  the Captain, 'as  makes us all slue round - for
which you'll overhaul the book - '
     'I  shall certainly do  so, Captain Gills,' says  Mr Toots,  with great
earnestness; 'when we first began to mention such subjects, I explained that
I was what you may call a Blighted Flower, you know.'
     The Captain approves of this figure greatly; and murmurs that no flower
as blows, is like the rose.
     'But Lord bless me,'  pursues Mr Toots, 'she was as  entirely conscious
of the state of my  feelings as I was myself. There was nothing I could tell
her. She was the only person who could have stood between  me and the silent
Tomb, and she did it, in  a manner to command my everlasting admiration. She
knows that there's nobody in the world I look up to, as I do to Miss Dombey.
Knows that there's nothing on earth I wouldn't do for Miss Dombey. She knows
that I consider Miss Dombey the most beautiful,  the most amiable,  the most
angelic of her  sex.  What is her observation  upon that?  The perfection of
sense. "My dear, you're right. I think so too."'
     'And so do I!' says the Captain.
     'So do I,' says Sol Gills.
     'Then,' resumes Mr Toots, after some contemplative pulling at his pipe,
during which his visage has expressed  the most  contented reflection, 'what
an observant woman my wife is! What sagacity she possesses! What remarks she
makes! It was only last  night, when  we  were  sitting in the enjoyment  of
connubial bliss  -  which,  upon my word  and honour,  is a feeble  term  to
express my feelings in the society of my wife - that she said how remarkable
it  was to  consider the  present  position  of our friend Walters.  "Here,"
observes  my wife, "he is,  released  from sea-going,  after that first long
voyage with his young bride" - as you know he was, Mr Sols.'
     'Quite true,' says the old Instrument-maker, rubbing his hands.
     "'Here  he  is,"  says  my  wife,  "released  from  that,  immediately;
appointed by the same establishment to a post of great  trust and confidence
at home; showing himself  again  worthy;  mounting  up the  ladder  with the
greatest expedition; beloved by everybody; assisted by his uncle at the very
best possible time of his fortunes" - which I think is the case, Mr Sols? My
wife is always correct.'
     'Why yes, yes - some of our lost ships, freighted  with gold, have come
home, truly,'  returns  old Sol,  laughing.  'Small  craft,  Mr  Toots,  but
serviceable to my boy!'
     'Exactly so,' says Mr Toots. 'You'll never find my wife wrong. "Here he
is," says that most remarkable woman, "so situated, - and what follows? What
follows?" observed Mrs Toots. Now pray  remark,  Captain Gills, and Mr Sols,
the  depth of  my wife's  penetration. "Why that,  under the  very eye of Mr
Dombey, there is a foundation going on, upon which a - an Edifice;" that was
Mrs Toots's word,' says Mr Toots exultingly, "'is  gradually rising, perhaps
to equal, perhaps excel, that of which he  was once the  head, and the small
beginnings of which (a common fault, but  a bad one, Mrs Toots said) escaped
his memory. Thus,"  said my wife,  "from his daughter,  after  all,  another
Dombey  and Son  will ascend"  -  no "rise;" that  was  Mrs  Toots's  word -
"triumphant!"'
     Mr Toots, with the assistance of his  pipe - which he is extremely glad
to devote to oratorical  purposes, as its proper use affects him with a very
uncomfortable sensation - does such grand justice to this prophetic sentence
of his wife's, that the Captain, throwing away his glazed  hat in a state of
the greatest excitement, cries:
     'Sol Gills, you  man of science and my ould pardner,  what did  I  tell
Wal'r to overhaul on that there night when he first took to business? Was it
this here quotation, "Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when
you are old you will never depart from it". Was it them words, Sol Gills?'
     'It  certainly was, Ned,' replied the old Instrument-maker. 'I remember
well.'
     'Then  I  tell you what,' says the  Captain, leaning back in his chair,
and composing his  chest for a prodigious  roar. 'I'll  give you Lovely  Peg
right through; and stand by, both on you, for the chorus!'

     Buried wine grows older, as the old Madeira  did, in its time; and dust
and cobwebs thicken on the bottles.
     Autumn days are shining, and on the sea-beach  there  are often a young
lady,  and  a  white-haired gentleman.  With them,  or  near  them, are  two
children: boy and girl. And an old dog is generally in their company.
     The  white-haired gentleman  walks with the little boy, talks with him,
helps him  in  his play, attends upon him,  watches  him as if  he were  the
object of  his life.  If  he  be thoughtful,  the white-haired gentleman  is
thoughtful  too;  and  sometimes when the child is sitting by  his side, and
looks up in his face, asking him questions, he  takes the tiny  hand in his,
and holding it, forgets to answer. Then the child says:
     'What, grandpa! Am I so like my poor little Uncle again?'
     'Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very strong.'
     'Oh yes, I am very strong.'
     'And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you can run about.'
     And  so they range away  again, busily, for the  white-haired gentleman
likes best  to  see  the  child  free and stirring;  and as  they  go  about
together, the story of the bond between them goes about, and follows them.
     But  no  one, except  Florence, knows  the measure of the  white-haired
gentleman's affection for the girl. That story  never  goes about. The child
herself almost wonders at a certain secrecy he keeps in it. He hoards her in
his heart.  He cannot bear to see a cloud upon her  face. He cannot bear  to
see her  sit apart. He fancies  that she feels a slight, when there is none.
He  steals away to  look  at her, in her  sleep. It pleases  him to have her
come,  and wake him in  the morning. He is fondest of her and most loving to
her, when there is no creature by. The child says then, sometimes:
     'Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me?'
     He  only answers, 'Little Florence!  little Florence!' and smooths away
the curls that shade her earnest eyes.
     The voices in the waves speak low  to him of Florence,  day and night -
plainest when he, his blooming daughter, and her husband, beside them in the
evening,  or sit at an  open window, listening to their roar. They speak  to
him  of Florence  and  his altered  heart; of Florence and  their  ceaseless
murmuring  to  her of the  love,  eternal and  illimitable, extending still,
beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to the invisible country far away.
     Never from the mighty sea may voices rise too  late, to come between us
and  the  unseen region on the  other shore! Better,  far better,  that they
whispered of that region in our childish ears, and the swift  river  hurried
us away!


     End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Domby and Son, by Dickens


     End of the
        PREFACE OF 1848
     I cannot  forego  my usual opportunity of saying farewell to my readers
in  this  greetingplace,  though  I have only to acknowledge  the  unbounded
warmth and earnestness  of their sympathy in every stage of  the journey  we
have just concluded.
     If any of them have felt a sorrow in one of the  principal incidents on
which this fiction  turns, I hope  it may be  a  sorrow  of that sort  which
endears the sharers in it, one  to  another. This is not unselfish  in me. I
may claim  to have  felt it, at least as much  as anybody else; and I  would
fain be remembered kindly for my part in the experience.

     DEVONSHIRE TERRACE, Twenty-Fourth March, 1848.

        PREFACE OF 1867
     I  make  so  bold  as  to believe  that  the faculty  (or the habit) of
correctly  observing the characters of men, is a  rare one.  I have not even
found,  within my experience, that the  faculty  (or the habit) of correctly
observing  so much as  the faces of men, is a general one by  any means. The
two commonest mistakes in judgement that I suppose to arise from  the former
default, are, the confounding  of  shyness  with arrogance -  a  very common
mistake indeed - and the not  understanding that  an obstinate nature exists
in a perpetual struggle with itself.
     Mr Dombey undergoes no  violent change, either in this book, or in real
life.  A  sense of  his  injustice  is  within him, all along.  The  more he
represses it, the more unjust he necessarily is. Internal shame and external
circumstances may bring  the contest to a close in a week, or a day; but, it
has been a contest for years, and is only fought out after a long balance of
victory.
     I began this book by  the Lake of  Geneva, and went on with it for some
months in France, before pursuing it in England. The association between the
writing and the place of writing is so curiously strong in  my mind, that at
this  day,  although  I know,  in  my  fancy,  every  stair  in  the  little
midshipman's house, and  could swear to every  pew  in  the church in  which
Florence  was  married,  or to every  young  gentleman's bedstead  in Doctor
Blimber's  establishment,  I  yet  confusedly   imagine  Captain  Cuttle  as
secluding  himself from  Mrs  MacStinger among the mountains of Switzerland.
Similarly, when  I am reminded by any chance  of what it was  that the waves
were always saying, my remembrance  wanders  for a  whole winter night about
the streets of Paris - as I restlessly  did with a heavy heart, on the night
when I had written  the chapter  in which  my  little  friend and  I  parted
company.


     ---------------------------------------------------------------
     End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Domby and Son, by Dickens