Here, then, we may recall the many interests and incidents connected with the experiences of the Peggotty family, and the sorrowful history of Little Emily, notably the fateful occasion of STEERFORTH’S FIRST VISIT, concerning which David records in chapter 21 of his autobiography, to the following effect:— “Em’ly, indeed, said little all the evening; but she looked, and listened, and her face got animated, and she was charming. Steerforth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which arose out of his talk with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all before him—and little Em’ly’s eyes were fastened on him all the time, as if she saw it too. He told us a merry adventure of his own, as a relief to that, with as much gaiety as if the narrative were as fresh to him as it was to us—and little Em’ly laughed until the boat rang with the musical sounds, and we all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy with what was so pleasant and lighthearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to sing, or rather to roar, ‘When the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow;’ and he sang a sailor’s song himself, so pathetically and beautifully, that I could have almost fancied that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the house, and murmuring low through our unbroken silence, was there to listen.” Thus commenced the sad story of the poor girl’s fascination and subsequent flight with Steerforth, never more to return to the old home. In this connection we may recall the graphic and powerful description of the great Storm at Yarmouth, as contained in chapter 55, when Ham met his fate in the gallant attempt to rescue the last survivor of a wrecked and perishing crew, Steerforth himself:— “They drew him to my very feet—insensible—dead. He was carried to the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now, I remained near him, busy, while every means of restoration was tried; but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled for ever. “As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door. “Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you come over yonder?’ “The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support me— “‘Has a body come ashore?’ “He said, ‘Yes.’ “‘Do I know it?’ I asked then. “He answered nothing.