John Jasper stands
looking down upon him, his unlighted pipe in his hand, for some
time, with a fixed and deep attention. Then, hushing his
footsteps, he passes to his own room, lights his pipe, and delivers
himself to the Spectres it invokes at midnight.
CHAPTER VI - PHILANTHROPY IN MINOR CANON CORNER
THE Reverend Septimus Crisparkle (Septimus, because six little
brother Crisparkles before him went out, one by one, as they were
born, like six weak little rushlights, as they were lighted),
having broken the thin morning ice near Cloisterham Weir with his
amiable head, much to the invigoration of his frame, was now
assisting his circulation by boxing at a looking-glass with great
science and prowess. A fresh and healthy portrait the looking-
glass presented of the Reverend Septimus, feinting and dodging with
the utmost artfulness, and hitting out from the shoulder with the
utmost straightness, while his radiant features teemed with
innocence, and soft-hearted benevolence beamed from his boxing-
gloves.
It was scarcely breakfast-time yet, for Mrs. Crisparkle - mother,
not wife of the Reverend Septimus - was only just down, and waiting
for the urn. Indeed, the Reverend Septimus left off at this very
moment to take the pretty old lady's entering face between his
boxing-gloves and kiss it. Having done so with tenderness, the
Reverend Septimus turned to again, countering with his left, and
putting in his right, in a tremendous manner.
'I say, every morning of my life, that you'll do it at last, Sept,'
remarked the old lady, looking on; 'and so you will.
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