My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer than Pip. So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.
I give Pirrip as my father's family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, my first fancies regarding what they were like were unreasonably derived from their tombstones.
Ours was the marsh country down by the river, within twenty miles of the sea. My most vivid memory of these early days was of a raw evening about dusk. At such a time I found out for certain that this bleak spot where I chanced to be wandering all alone was the churchyard; that the low, leaden line beyond was the river; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry was myself—Pip.
"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch.
He was a fearful looking man, clad in coarse gray, covered with mud and brambles, and with a great clanking chain upon his leg.
"Tell us your name!" said the man.
"Quick!"
"Pip, sir."
"Show us where you live," said the man. "P'int out the place!"
I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the trees a mile or more from the church.