who was Tom Pythick? and he said, 'Joe Pythick's uncle.'
A little further on, I found the older and smaller wall, which used
to enclose the pent-up inner prison where nobody was put, except for
ceremony. But, whosoever goes into Marshalsea Place, turning out of
Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey, will find his feet on the very
uses, and was very nearly correct. How this young Newton (for such I
judge him to be) came by his information, I don't know; he was a quarter
of a century too young to know anything about it of himself. I pointed
to the window of the room where Little Dorrit was born, and where her
father lived so long, and asked him what was the name of the lodger who
tenanted that apartment at present? He said, 'Tom Pythick.' I asked him
down a certain adjacent 'Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey', I came to
'Marshalsea Place:' the houses in which I recognised, not only as the
great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms that arose
in my mind's-eye when I became Little Dorrit's biographer. The smallest
boy I ever conversed with, carrying the largest baby I ever saw, offered
a supernaturally intelligent explanation of the locality in its old
like them was ever known in this land. Some of my readers may have an
interest in being informed whether or no any portions of the Marshalsea
Prison are yet standing. I did not know, myself, until the sixth of this
present month, when I went to look. I found the outer front courtyard,
often mentioned here, metamorphosed into a butter shop; and I then
almost gave up every brick of the jail for lost. Wandering, however,
preposterous fancy that a bad design will sometimes claim to be a good
and an expressly religious design, it would be the curious coincidence
that it has been brought to its climax in these pages, in the days of
the public examination of late Directors of a Royal British Bank. But,
I submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on all these counts,
if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good authority) that nothing
If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the
common experience of an Englishman, without presuming to mention the
unimportant fact of my having done that violence to good manners, in the
would hint that it originated after the Railroad-share epoch, in the
times of a certain Irish bank, and of one or two other equally
laudable enterprises. If I were to plead anything in mitigation of the
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