. The International library of famous literature, selections from the world's great writers, ancient, mediaeval, and modern with biographical and explanatory notes and critical essays by many eminent writers. itiators of a remorseless Idol, how abjectwe were to him ! What a launch in life I think it now, onlooking back, to be so mean and servile to a man of such partsand pretensions ! Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye — humblywatching his eye, as he rules a ciphering book for anothervictim whose hands have just been flattened by that identicalruler, and who is trying to wipe the s
. The International library of famous literature, selections from the world's great writers, ancient, mediaeval, and modern with biographical and explanatory notes and critical essays by many eminent writers. itiators of a remorseless Idol, how abjectwe were to him ! What a launch in life I think it now, onlooking back, to be so mean and servile to a man of such partsand pretensions ! Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye — humblywatching his eye, as he rules a ciphering book for anothervictim whose hands have just been flattened by that identicalruler, and who is trying to wipe the sting out with a pockethandkerchief. I have plenty to do. I dont watch his eye inidleness, but because I am morbidly attracted to it, in a dreaddesire to know what he will do next, and wheth^- it will bemy turn to suffer, or somebody elses. A lane of small boysbeyond me, with the same interest in his eye, watch it too. Ithink he knows it, though he pretends he dont. He makesdreadful mouths as he rules the ciphering book ; and now hethrows his eye sideways down our lane, and we all droop overour books and tremble. A moment afterwards we are againeying him. An unhappy culprit, found guilty of imperfect. s p O >^ Pi < 3 o oo COPPERFIELD AT SCHOOL. 7999 exercise, approaches at liis command. The culprit falters ex-cuses, aud professes a determination to do better Creakle cuts a joke before he beats him, and we laugh atit—miserable little dogs, we langh, with our visages as whiteas ashes, and our hearts sinking into our boots. Here I sit at the desk again, on a drowsy summer buzz and hum go up around me, as if the boys were so manyblue bottles. A cloggy sensation of the lukewarm fat of meatis upon me (we dined an hour or two ago), and my head is asheavy as so much lead. I v/ould give the world to go to sit with my eye on Mr. Creakle, blinking at him like a youngowl; when sleep overpowers me for a minute, he still loomsthrough my slumber, rul
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