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able to get it。 There was old people； after working all their lives；
going and being shut up in the workhouse； much worse fed and lodged and
treated altogether； than……Mr Plornish said manufacturers； but appeared
to mean malefactors。 Why； a man didn't know where to turn himself for a
crumb of fort。 As to who was to blame for it； Mr Plornish didn't know
who was to blame for it。 He could tell you who suffered； but he couldn't
tell you whose fault it was。 It wasn't HIS place to find out； and who'd
mind what he said； if he did find out？ He only know'd that it wasn't put
right by them what undertook that line of business； and that it didn't
e right of itself。 And； in brief； his illogical opinion was； that if
you couldn't do nothing for him； you had better take nothing from him
for doing of it； so far as he could make out； that was about what it
e to。 Thus； in a prolix； gently…growling； foolish way； did Plornish
turn the tangled skein of his estate about and about； like a blind man
who was trying to find some beginning or end to it； until they reached
the prison gate。 There； he left his Principal alone； to wonder； as he
rode away； how many thousand Plornishes there might be within a day
or two's journey of the Circumlocution Office； playing sundry curious
variations on the same tune； which were not known by ear in that
glorious institution。
CHAPTER 13。 Patriarchal
The mention of Mr Casby again revived in Clennam's memory the
smouldering embers of curiosity and interest which Mrs Flintwinch had
fanned on the night of his arrival。 Flora Casby had been the beloved of
his boyhood； and Flora was the daughter and only child of wooden…headed
old Christopher （so he was still occasionally spoken of by some
irreverent spirits who had had dealings with him； and in whom
familiarity had bred its proverbial result perhaps）； who was reputed to
be rich in weekly tenants； and to get a good quantity of blood out of
the stones of several unpromising courts and alleys。 After some days of
inquiry and research； Arthur Clennam became convinced that the case of
the Father of the Marshalsea was indeed a hopeless one； and sorrowfully
resigned the idea of helping him to freedom again。 He had no hopeful
inquiry to make at present； concerning Little Dorrit either； but he
argued with himself that it might……for anything he knew……it might be
serviceable to the poor child； if he renewed this acquaintance。 It is
hardly necessary to add that beyond all doubt he would have presented
himself at Mr Casby's door； if there had been no Little Dorrit in
existence； for we all know how we all deceive ourselves……that is to
say； how people in general； our profounder selves excepted； deceive
themselves……as to motives of action。
With a fortable impression upon him； and quite an honest one in its
way； that he was still patronising Little Dorrit in doing what had no
reference to her； he found himself one afternoon at the corner of Mr
Casby's street。 Mr Casby lived in a street in the Gray's Inn Road； which
had set off from that thoroughfare with the intention of running at one
heat down into the valley； and up again to the top of Pentonville Hill；
but which had run itself out of breath in twenty yards； and had stood
still ever since。 There is no such place in that part now； but it
remained there for many years； looking with a baulked countenance at
the wilderness patched with unfruitful gardens and pimpled with eruptive
summerhouses； that it had meant to run over in no time。
'The house；' thought Clennam； as he crossed to the door； 'is as little
changed as my mother's； and looks almost as gloomy。 But the likeness
ends outside。 I know its staid repose within。 The smell of its jars of
old rose…leaves and lavender seems to e upon me even here。'
When his knock at the bright brass knocker of obsolete shape brought a
woman…servant to the door； those faded scents in truth saluted him like
wintry breath that had a faint remembrance in it of the bygone spring。
He stepped into the sober； silent； air…tight house……one might have
fancied it to have been stifled by Mutes in the Eastern manner……and the
door； closing again； seemed to shut out sound and motion。 The
furniture was formal； grave； and quaker…like； but well…kept； and had as
prepossessing an aspect as anything； from a human creature to a wooden
stool； that is meant for much use and is preserved for little； can ever
wear。 There was a grave clock； ticking somewhere up the staircase； and
there was a songless bird in the same direction； pecking at his cage； as
if he were ticking too。 The parlour…fire ticked in the grate。 There was
only one person on the parlour…hearth； and the loud watch in his pocket
ticked audibly。
The servant…maid had ticked the two words 'Mr Clennam' so softly that
she had not been heard； and he consequently stood； within the door
she had closed； unnoticed。 The figure of a man advanced in life； whose
smooth grey eyebrows seemed to move to the ticking as the fire…light
flickered on them； sat in an arm…chair； with his list shoes on the
rug； and his thumbs slowly revolving over one another。 This was old
Christopher Casby……recognisable at a glance……as unchanged in twenty
years and upward as his own solid furniture……as little touched by the
influence of the varying seasons as the old rose…leaves and old lavender
in his porcelain jars。
Perhaps there never was a man； in this troublesome world； so troublesome
for the imagination to picture as a boy。 And yet he had changed very
little in his progress through life。 Confronting him； in the room in
which he sat； was a boy's portrait； which anybody seeing him would have
identified as Master Christopher Casby； aged ten： though disguised with
a haymaking rake； for which he had had； at any time； as much taste or
use as for a diving…bell； and sitting （on one of his own legs） upon a
bank of violets； moved to precocious contemplation by the spire of a
village church。 There was the same smooth face and forehead； the same
calm blue eye； the same placid air。 The shining bald head； which looked
so very large because it shone so much； and the long grey hair at its
sides and back； like floss silk or spun glass； which looked so very
benevolent because it was never cut； were not； of course； to be seen in
the boy as in the old man。 Nevertheless； in the Seraphic creature with
the haymaking rake； were clearly to be discerned the rudiments of the
Patriarch with the list shoes。
Patriarch was the name which many people delighted to give him。
Various old ladies in the neighbourhood spoke of him as The Last of the
Patriarchs。 So grey； so slopassionate； so very bumpy
in the head； Patriarch was the word for him。 He had been accosted in the
streets； and respectfully solicited to bee a Patriarch for painters
and for sculptors； with so much importunity； in sooth； that it would
appear to be beyond the Fine Arts to remember the points of a Patriarch；
or to invent one。 Philanthropists of both sexes had asked who he was；
and on being informed； 'Old Christopher Casby； formerly Town…agent to
Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle；' had cried in a rapture of disappointment；
'Oh！ why； with that head； is he not