my shoulder, and I says to her mother, 'Quick, shut the door! Don't let those laughing people see.' 'What's the matter?' she cries, 'O woman, woman,' I tells her, 'you'll never catch my little Sophy by her hair again, for she has flown away from you.'" Dickens' strongest characters, and those he loved most to paint, are such as contain foibles and eccentricities, or much dulness and ignorance in conjunction with the best feelings and intentions, so that his teaching seems rather to be that we should look beyond mere external trifles. Those he attacks are mostly middle-class people, or those slightly below them--the dogs in office, and the dogs in the manger. The artifice and cunning of the waiter of the Hotel at Yarmouth, where little Copperfield awaits the coach, is excellently represented. "The waiter brought me some chops and vegetables, and took the covers off in such a bouncing manner, that I was afraid I must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying very affably 'Now sixfoot come on!' "I thanked him and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop, he said: "There's half a pint of ale for you, will you have it now?' "I thanked him and said 'Yes'--upon which he poured it out of a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light and made it look beautiful. "'My eye!' he said 'It seems a good deal, don't it.' "'It does seem a good deal,' I answered with a smile, for it was quite delightful to me to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed, purple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and as he stood with one arm akimbo, holding up the glass to the light, with one hand he looked quite friendly. "'There was a gentleman here yesterday,' he said, 'a stout gentleman by the name of Topsawyer, perhaps you know him?' "'No,' I said, I don't think-- "'In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey coat, speckled choker,' said the waiter. "'No,' I said bashfully, 'I hav'n't the pleasure--' "'He came here,' said the waiter, looking at the light through the tumbler, 'ordered a glass of this ale, _would_ order it, I told him not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn't to be drawn, that's the fact.'