The position of this old boat-house, as belonging to Dan’l Peggotty, was at the upper extremity of the South Denes, a flat and grassy expanse—beyond the Wellington Pier and South Battery—in the neighbourhood of the Nelson Column, facing the sea.
In chapter 22 we find a reference to the South Town ferry, crossing the Yare, “to a flat between the river and the sea, Mr. Peggotty’s house being on that waste place, and not a hundred yards out of the track.”
[There is a small wooden erection, more than a mile and a half distant, on the sea-front near Gorleston Pier—between two well-built houses—assuming the name of Peggotty’s Hut; but this is an evident absurdity and misnomer.]
Here, then, we may recall the many interests and incidents connected with the experiences of the Peggotty family, and the sorrowful history of Little Emily, notably the fateful occasion of Steerforth’s First Visit, concerning which David records in chapter 21 of his autobiography, to the following effect:—
“Em’ly, indeed, said little all the evening; but she looked, and listened, and her face got animated, and she was charming. Steerforth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which arose out of his talk with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all before him—and little Em’ly’s eyes were fastened on him all the time, as if she saw it too. He told us a merry adventure of his own, as a relief to that, with as much gaiety as if the narrative were as fresh to him as it was to us—and little Em’ly laughed until the boat rang with the musical sounds, and we all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy with what was so pleasant and lighthearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to sing, or rather to roar, ‘When the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow;’ and he sang a sailor’s song himself, so pathetically and beautifully, that I could have almost fancied that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the house, and murmuring low through our unbroken silence, was there to listen.”
Thus commenced the sad story of the poor girl’s fascination and subsequent flight with Steerforth, never more to return to the old home. In this connection we may recall the graphic and powerful description of the great Storm at Yarmouth, as contained in chapter 55, when Ham met his fate in the gallant attempt to rescue the last survivor of a wrecked and perishing crew, Steerforth himself:—
“They drew him to my very feet—insensible—dead. He was carried to the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now, I remained near him, busy, while every means of restoration was tried; but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled for ever.
“As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door.
“Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you come over yonder?’
“The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support me—
“‘Has a body come ashore?’
“He said, ‘Yes.’
“‘Do I know it?’ I asked then.
“He answered nothing.
“But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had looked for shells, two children—on that part of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by the wind—among the ruins of the home he had wronged—I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.”
In the days of Copperfield, Two Coaches ran between Great Yarmouth and London—“The Blue” and “The Royal Mail.” On the occasion of David’s first journey to his school at Blackheath, he travelled by the former of these, from The Angel Hotel, in the Market Place. We may here recall his dinner of chops in the coffee-room, at which the “friendly waiter” assisted, helping himself to the lion’s share.
In chapter 5 of his History, David relates the attendant circumstances of this, his second visit to Yarmouth; and how, starting as above from the hotel, his dinner—ordered and paid for in advance—was mainly consumed by proxy, ale included. We read that the waiter, “a twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head,” invited himself to the meal:—
“He took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other, and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction. He afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that another chop and another potato. When we had done, he brought me a pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become absent in his mind for some moments.
“‘How’s the pie?’ he said, rousing himself.
“‘It’s a pudding,’ I made answer.
“‘Pudding!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, bless me, so it is! What!’ looking at it nearer. ‘You don’t mean to say it’s a batter-pudding?’
“‘Yes, it is indeed.’
“‘Why, a batter-pudding,’ he said, taking up a table-spoon, ‘is my favourite pudding. Ain’t that lucky? Come on, little ’un, and let’s see who’ll get most.’
“The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, his despatch to my despatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw any one enjoy a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.”