Now, it struck me, when we began to visit individuals in their cells, and to traverse the passages in which those cells were, and to have the manner of the going to chapel and so forth, explained to us, that there was a strong probability of the prisoners knowing a good deal about each other, and of their carrying on a pretty complete system of intercourse. This, at the time I write, has been proved, I believe, to be the case; but, as it would have been flat blasphemy against the system to have hinted such a doubt then, I looked out for the penitence as diligently as I could.
And here again, I had great misgivings. I found as prevalent a fashion in the form of the penitence, as I had left outside in the forms of the coats and waistcoats in the windows of the tailors’ shops. I found a vast amount of profession, varying very little in character: varying very little (which I thought exceedingly suspicious), even in words. I found a great many foxes, disparaging whole vineyards of inaccessible grapes; but I found very few foxes whom I would have trusted within reach of a bunch. Above all, I found that the most professing men were the greatest objects of interest; and that their conceit, their vanity, their want of excitement, and their love of deception (which many of them possessed to an almost incredible extent, as their histories showed), all prompted to these professions, and were all gratified by them.
However, I heard so repeatedly, in the course of our goings to and fro, of a certain Number Twenty Seven, who was the favourite, and who really appeared to be a model prisoner, that I resolved to suspend my judgement until I should see Twenty Seven. Twenty Eight, I understood, was also a bright particular star; but it was his misfortune to have his glory a little dimmed by the extraordinary lustre of Twenty Seven. I heard so much of Twenty Seven, of his pious admonitions to everybody around him, and of the beautiful letters he constantly wrote to his mother (whom he seemed to consider in a very bad way), that I became quite impatient to see him.
I had to restrain my impatience for some time, on account of Twenty Seven being reserved for a concluding effect. But, at last, we came to the door of his cell; and Mr. Creakle, looking through a little hole in it, reported to us, in a state of the greatest admiration, that he was reading a hymn book.
There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Number Twenty Seven reading his hymn book, that the little hole was blocked up, six or seven heads deep. To remedy this inconvenience, and give us an opportunity of conversing with Twenty Seven in all his purity, Mr. Creakle directed the door of the cell to be unlocked, and Twenty Seven to be invited out into the passage. This was done; and whom should Traddles and I then behold, to our amazement, in this converted Number Twenty Seven, but Uriah Heep!
He knew us directly; and said, as he came out—with the old writhe—
“How do you do, Mr. Copperfield? How do you do, Mr. Traddles?”
This recognition caused a general admiration in the party. I rather thought that everyone was struck by his not being proud, and taking notice of us.
“Well, Twenty Seven,” said Mr. Creakle, mournfully admiring him. “How do you find yourself today?”
“I am very ’umble, sir!” replied Uriah Heep.
“You are always so, Twenty Seven,” said Mr. Creakle.
Here, another gentleman asked, with extreme anxiety: “Are you quite comfortable?”
“Yes, I thank you, sir!” said Uriah Heep, looking in that direction. “Far more comfortable here, than ever I was outside. I see my follies, now, sir. That’s what makes me comfortable.”
Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third questioner, forcing himself to the front, inquired with extreme feeling: “How do you find the beef?”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Uriah, glancing in the new direction of this voice, “it was tougher yesterday than I could wish; but it’s my duty to bear. I have committed follies, gentlemen,” said Uriah, looking round with a meek smile, “and I ought to bear the consequences without repining.” A murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty Seven’s celestial state of mind, and partly of indignation against the contractor who had given him any cause of complaint (a note of which was immediately made by Mr. Creakle), having subsided, Twenty Seven stood in the midst of us, as if he felt himself the principal object of merit in a highly meritorious museum. That we, the neophytes, might have an excess of light shining upon us all at once, orders were given to let out Twenty Eight.
I had been so much astonished already, that I only felt a kind of resigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forth, reading a good book!
“Twenty Eight,” said a gentleman in spectacles, who had not yet spoken, “you complained last week, my good fellow, of the cocoa. How has it been since?”
“I thank you, sir,” said Mr. Littimer, “it has been better made. If I might take the liberty of saying so, sir, I don’t think the milk which is boiled with it is quite genuine; but I am aware, sir, that there is a great adulteration of milk, in London, and that the article in a pure state is difficult to be obtained.”
It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed his Twenty Eight against Mr. Creakle’s Twenty Seven, for each of them took his own man in hand.
“What is your state of mind, Twenty Eight?” said the questioner in spectacles.
“I thank you, sir,” returned Mr. Littimer; “I see my follies now, sir. I am a good deal troubled
