A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. ‘Keep still, you little devil, or I’ll cut your throat!’ A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. ‘Hold your noise!’ cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. At such a time I found out for certain, that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, 3Īnd also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes and that the low leaden line beyond, was the river and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing, was the sea and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.
My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine – who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle – I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence. From the character and turn of the inscription, ‘Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,’ I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. The shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair.
As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like, were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. 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. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip. My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. UK: ISBN 0141881208 in MS Reader format ISBN 0141881216 in Adobe eReader format US: ISBN 078651261X in MS Reader format ISBN 0786512628 in Adobe eReader formatĪffectionately inscribed to Chauncy Hare Townshend No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to civil and/or criminal liability, where applicable. PENGUIN BOOKS Published by the Penguin Group: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,Victoria 3124, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England First published 1860-61 This electronic edition published 2002 His last novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, was never completed and he died in 1870. His most famous works include Oliver Twist (1837), A Christmas Carol (1843), David Copperfield (1849–50), A Tale of Two Cities (1859) and Great Expectations (1860–1). His first novel, The Pickwick Papers (1836–7), was a huge success. He taught himself shorthand and became a reporter. His father was imprisoned for debt and Dickens was briefly sent to work in a blacking warehouse at the age of twelve. Great Expectations Charles Dickens was born in Portsmouth in 1812.
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