Great Expectations

As I was loitering along the High Street, looking in disconsolately at

the shop windows, and thinking what I would buy if I were a gentleman,

who should come out of the bookshop but Mr. Wopsle. Mr. Wopsle had in

his hand the affecting tragedy of George Barnwell, in which he had that

moment invested sixpence, with the view of heaping every word of it on

the head of Pumblechook, with whom he was going to drink tea. No sooner

did he see me, than he appeared to consider that a special Providence

had put a 'prentice in his way to be read at; and he laid hold of me,

and insisted on my accompanying him to the Pumblechookian parlor. As I

knew it would be miserable at home, and as the nights were dark and the

way was dreary, and almost any companionship on the road was better

than none, I made no great resistance; consequently, we turned into

Pumblechook's just as the street and the shops were lighting up.

As I never assisted at any other representation of George Barnwell, I

don't know how long it may usually take; but I know very well that it

took until half-past nine o' clock that night, and that when Mr. Wopsle

got into Newgate, I thought he never would go to the scaffold, he became

so much slower than at any former period of his disgraceful career. I

thought it a little too much that he should complain of being cut short

in his flower after all, as if he had not been running to seed, leaf

after leaf, ever since his course began. This, however, was a

mere question of length and wearisomeness. What stung me, was the

identification of the whole affair with my unoffending self. When

Barnwell began to go wrong, I declare that I felt positively apologetic,

Pumblechook's indignant stare so taxed me with it. Wopsle, too, took

pains to present me in the worst light. At once ferocious and maudlin, I

was made to murder my uncle with no extenuating circumstances whatever;

Millwood put me down in argument, on every occasion; it became sheer

monomania in my master's daughter to care a button for me; and all I can

say for my gasping and procrastinating conduct on the fatal morning, is,

that it was worthy of the general feebleness of my character. Even after

I was happily hanged and Wopsle had closed the book, Pumblechook sat

staring at me, and shaking his head, and saying, "Take warning, boy,

take warning!" as if it were a well-known fact that I contemplated

murdering a near relation, provided I could only induce one to have the

weakness to become my benefactor.