I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial mind’s eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over his bald head, and said with ostentatious resignation:
“My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,” in allusion to his baldness, “for that distinction. I do not,” said Mr. Micawber, “regret my hair, and I may have been deprived of it for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is my intention, my dear Copperfield, to educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that I should be happy, on his account, to attain to eminence.”
“For the Church?” said I, still pondering, between whiles, on Uriah Heep.
“Yes,” said Mr. Micawber. “He has a remarkable head-voice, and will commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and our local connection, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of any vacancy that may arise in the Cathedral corps.”
On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certain expression