 of the falsehood and
trickery of such men's lives, or whether they really hope to cheat Heaven
itself, and lay up treasure in the next world by the same process which has
enabled them to lay up treasure in this - not to question how it is, so it is.
And, doubtless, such book-keeping (like certain autobiographies which have
enlightened the world) cannot fail to prove serviceable, in the one respect of
sparing the recording Angel some time and labour.
    Ralph Nickleby was not a man of this stamp. Stern, unyielding, dogged, and
impenetrable, Ralph cared for nothing in life, or beyond it, save the
gratification of two passions: avarice, the first and predominant appetite of
his nature, and hatred, the second. Affecting to consider himself but a type of
all humanity, he was at little pains to conceal his true character from the
world in general, and in his own heart he exulted over and cherished every bad
design as it had birth. The only scriptural admonition that Ralph Nickleby
heeded, in the letter, was know thyself. He knew himself well, and choosing to
imagine that all mankind were cast in the same mould, hated them; for, though no
man hates himself, the coldest among us having too much self-love for that, yet
most men unconsciously judge the world from themselves, and it will be very
generally found that those who sneer habitually at human nature, and affect to
despise it, are among its worst and least pleasant samples.
    But the present business of these adventures is with Ralph himself, who
stood regarding Newman Noggs with a heavy frown, while that worthy took off his
fingerless gloves, and, spreading them carefully on the palm of his left hand,
and flattening them with his right to take the creases out, proceeded to roll
them up with an absent air as if he were utterly regardless of all things else,
in the deep interest of the ceremonial.
    »Gone out of town!« said Ralph, slowly. »A mistake of yours. Go back again.«
    »No mistake,« returned Newman. »Not even going; gone.«
    »Has he turned girl or baby?« muttered Ralph, with a fretful gesture.
    »I don't know,« said Newman, »but he's gone.«
    The repetition of the word, gone, seemed to afford Newman Noggs
inexpressible delight, in proportion as it annoyed Ralph Nickleby. He uttered
the word with a full round emphasis, dwelling upon it as long as he decently
could, and when he
