But to the books themselves. And commencing with _David Copperfield_—who is provided with the heart, feelings, and understanding of the great novelist himself—I make my first pause at the waiter at the Yarmouth hotel. I don’t like that waiter, either as a man or a waiter; and his portrait by “Phiz” suggests a Cheap Jack at a fair, or a barber, rather than a coffee-room attendant. As a boy, I always looked up to a waiter as a benefactor—a species of Santa Claus, and not as a marauding varlet who would probably despoil me of my lawful share of the banquet and then lie about the incident to the landlady. And when this rascal pleads that he “lives on broken wittles, and sleeps on the coals,” I lose patience with him. A waiter who could rob a poor boy of his beer {214} would not need to sleep on the coals. He might have been a tax-gatherer, or a bailiff. Mr. Creakle, the schoolmaster, appears to have been a bit of an imbiber, whilst the boys themselves partook, _sub rosa_, of cowslip wine, occasionally fortified by Steerforth with orange juice, ginger, or a peppermint drop; and it was probably due to this decoction, rather than to “Crab,” that poor Traddles became ill in the night—his sufferings being unduly prolonged by black draughts and blue pills, not to mention six chapters of Greek Testament and a special-extra caning. Poor little David partook of assorted drinks during his boyhood, including the aforesaid “Genuine Stunning,” and occasional wine-glasses of punch whilst lodging with the Micawber family; and, his good aunt once found, “her first proceeding was to unlock a tall press, bring out several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my mouth. I think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing.” “My aunt” partook of hot white wine and water, with strips of toast soaked therein, by way of a night-cap; and whenever Micawber turns up, we may be sure that the ingredients for a bowl of punch (presumably rum punch) are not far off. Not much drinking was done in the Peggotty family, but Mrs. Crupp, David’s landlady, seems to have had the proverbial passion of her race for brandy; and, naturally enough, the “handy young man” hired to wait, on the occasion of the dinner to Steerforth, got more {215} than his fair share of the wines. Mr. Wickfield—silly old dotard to be deceived by such a shallow, transparent ruffian as Uriah Heep—drank assorted wines to drown his cares; whilst one of the servants engaged by Dora, during her brief experience of matrimonial joys, used to chalk up an account, in her mistress’ name, at the public house, the items appearing as “half-quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.);” “glass rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)”—the parenthesis always referring to Dora, who was supposed to have consumed the whole of these refreshments.