“He is hard to me sometimes,” returned Uriah. “But I don’t know what he might be, to a gifted person.”
After beating a little tune on his chin as we walked on, with the two fore-fingers of his skeleton right hand, he added:
“There are expressions, you see, Master Copperfield—Latin words and terms—in Mr. Tidd, that are trying to a reader of my umble attainments.”
“Would you like to be taught Latin?” I said, briskly. “I will teach it you with pleasure, as I learn it.”
“Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,” he answered, shaking his head. “I am sure it’s very kind of you to make the offer, but I am much too umble to accept it.”
“What nonsense, Uriah!”
“Oh, indeed you must excuse me, Master Copperfield! I am greatly obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure you; but I am far too umble. There are people enough to tread upon me in my lowly state, without my doing outrage to their feelings by possessing learning. Learning ain’t for me. A person like myself had better not aspire. If he is to get on in life, he must get on umbly, Master Copperfield.”
I never saw his mouth so wide, or the creases in his cheeks so deep, as when he delivered himself of these sentiments: shaking his head all the time, and writhing modestly.
“I think you are wrong, Uriah,” I said. “I dare say there are several things that I could teach you, if you would like to learn them.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that, Master Copperfield,” he answered; “not in the least. But not being umble yourself, you don’t judge well, perhaps, for them that are. I won’t provoke my betters with knowledge, thank you. I’m much too umble. Here is my umble dwelling, Master Copperfield!”