had been born a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than he had been born a bird? Whether he could go into the next street, and open a chemist’s shop? Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim himself a lawyer? Whether he could come out by force at the opera, and succeed by violence? Whether he could do anything, without being brought up to something?
My aunt mused a little while, and then said:
“ Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to emigration.”
“Madam,” returned Mr. Micawber, “it was the dream of my youth, and the fallacious aspiration of my riper years.” I am thoroughly persuaded, by the by, that he had never thought of it in his life.
“Aye?” said my aunt, with a glance at me. “Why, what a thing it would be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, if you were to emigrate now.”
“Capital, madam, capital,” urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily.
“That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my dear Mr. Copperfield,” assented his wife.
“Capital?” cried my aunt. “But you are doing us a great service—have done us a great service, I may say, for surely much will come out of the fire—and what could we do for you, that would be half so good as to find the capital?”
“I could not receive it as a gift,” said Mr. Micawber, full of fire and animation, “but if a sufficient sum could be advanced, say at five percent interest, per annum, upon my personal liability—say my notes of hand, at twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four months, respectively, to allow time for something to turn up—”