looked at me, making the motion with his lips
and eyebrows, " She?" My sister catching
him in the act, he drew the back of his hand
across his nose with his usual conciliatory air
on such occasions, and looked at her.

"Well?" said my sister, in her snappish way.
"What are you staring; at? Is the house a-fire?"

—"Which some individual," Joe politely
hinted, " mentioned—she."

"And she is a she, I suppose?" said my
sister. "Unless you call Miss Havisham a he.
And I doubt if even you'll go so far as that."

"Miss Havisham, up town?" said Joe.

"Is there any Miss Havisham down town?"
returned my sister. "She wants this boy to go
and play there. And of course he's going. And
he had better play there," said my sister, shaking
her head at me as an encouragement to be
extremely light and sportive, "or I'll work him."

I had heard of Miss Havisham up town—everybody
for miles round, had heard of Miss Havisham
up town—as an immensely rich and grim
lady who lived in a large and dismal house
barricaded against robbers, and who led a life of
seclusion.

"Well to be sure!" said Joe, astounded.
"I wonder how she come to know Pip!"

"Noodle!" cried my sister. " Who said
she knew him?"

—"Which some individual," Joe again
politely hinted, "mentioned that she wanted him
to go and play there."

"And couldn't she ask Uncle Pumblechook
if he knew of a boy to go and play there?
Isn't it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook
may be a tenant of hers, and that he may
sometimes—we won't say quarterly or half yearly,
for that would be requiring too much of you—
but sometimes—go there to pay his rent? And
couldn't she then ask Uncle Pumblechook if he
knew of a boy to go and play there? And
couldn't Uncle Pumblechook, being always
considerate and thoughtful for us—though you may
not think it, Joseph," in a tone of the deepest
reproach, as if he were the most callous of
nephews, "then mention this boy, standing
Prancing here"—which I solemnly declare I was
not doing—"that I have for ever been a willing
slave to?"

"Good again!" cried Uncle Pumblechook.
"Well put! Prettily pointed! Good indeed!
Now Joseph, you know the case."

"No Joseph," said my sister, still in a
reproachful manner, while Joe apologetically drew
the back of his hand across and across his nose,
"you do not yet—though you may not think it
—know the case. You may consider that you
do, but you do not Joseph. For you do not
know that Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible
that for anything we can tell, this boy's fortune
may be made by his going to Miss Havisham's,
has offered to take him into town to-night in his
own chaise-cart, and to keep him to-night, and to
take him with his own hands to Miss Havisham's
to-morrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me!"
cried my sister, casting off her bonnet in sudden
desperation, " here I stand talking to mere
Mooncalfs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting,
and the mare catching cold at the door, and the
boy grimed with crock and dirt from the hair of
his head to the sole of his foot!"

With that, she pounced upon me, like an eagle
on a lamb, and my face was squeezed into wooden
bowls in sinks, and my head was put under taps
of water-butts, and I was soaped, and kneaded,
and towelled, and thumped, and harrowed, and
rasped, until I really was quite beside myself.
(I may here remark that I suppose myself to be
better acquainted than any living authority, with
the ridgy effect of a wedding-ring, passing
unsympathetically over the human countenance.)

When my ablutions were completed, I was
put into clean linen of the stiffest character,
like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was
trussed up in my tightest and fearfullest suit. I
was then delivered over to Mr. Pumblechook,
who formally received me as if he were the
Sheriff, and who let off upon me the speech
that I knew he had been dying to make all
along: "Boy, be for ever grateful to all friends,
but especially unto them which brought you up
by hand!"

"Good-bye, Joe!"

"God bless you, Pip, old chap!"

I had never parted from him before, and what
with my feelings and what with soap-suds, I
could at first see no stars from the chaise-cart.
But they twinkled out one by one, without throwing
any light on the questions why on earth I
was going to play at Miss Havisham's, and what
on earth I was expected to, play at.

THE MOON.

THE moonlight aspects both of mighty cities
and of wild and natural scenery—moonlight
walks, and moonlight drives—offer a most
agreeable variety in the number of impressions
which lie within the range of human enjoyment.
The season, too, has now arrived when the sun's
brief stay above the horizon renders the moon a
much more conspicuous object in our eyes, than
she is during the longer and lighter days of
summer. Most persons, at present, will prefer
having some precise idea of the surface of the
silvery luminary which shines overhead, to
discussing whether the spots that are visible upon
it represent a face merely, or a man at full-length
carrying a fagot of sticks upon his shoulders.
We therefore direct our readers' attention to a
clear and admirable map of the moon by
Messieurs Lecouturier and A. Chapuis, published
this summer, and accompanied by an excellent
explanatory pamphlet. The map (in which the
moon is delineated with a diameter of very nearly
sixteen inches, and which is the only general
chart of our satellite that has been given to the
French public for the last two centuries*) is sold
in Paris for three francs. At a London
bookseller's it would cost a trifle more, to which
must be added a shilling or so for the little
treatise which is at the same time put into your

* There are partial maps, and small confused maps,
as in Arago's Popular Astronomy.