 by
        the prismatic hues of memory, has ever afforded me, as it ever must
        continue to afford, gratifying emotions of no common description. This
        fact, my dear sir, combined with the distinguished elevation to which
        your talents have raised you, deters me from presuming to aspire to the
        liberty of addressing the companion of my youth, by the familiar
        appellation of Copperfield! It is sufficient to know that the name to
        which I do myself the honour to refer, will ever be treasured among the
        muniments of our house (I allude to the archives connected with our
        former lodgers, preserved by Mrs. Micawber), with sentiments of personal
        esteem amounting to affection.
            It is not for one situated, through his original errors and a
        fortuitous combination of unpropitious events, as is the foundered Bark
        (if he may be allowed to assume so maritime a denomination), who now
        takes up the pen to address you - it is not, I repeat, for one so
        circumstanced, to adopt the language of compliment, or of
        congratulation. That, he leaves to abler and to purer hands.
            If your more important avocations should admit of your ever tracing
        these imperfect characters thus far - which may be, or may not be, as
        circumstances arise - you will naturally inquire by what object am I
        influenced, then, in inditing the present missive? Allow me to say that
        I fully defer to the reasonable character of that inquiry, and proceed
        to develop it: premising that it is not an object of a pecuniary nature.
            Without more directly referring to any latent ability that may
        possibly exist on my part, of wielding the thunderbolt, or directing the
        devouring and avenging flame in any quarter, I may be permitted to
        observe, in passing, that my brightest visions are for ever dispelled -
        that my peace is shattered and my power of enjoyment destroyed - that my
        heart is no longer in the right place - and that I no more walk erect
        before my fellow-man. The canker is in the flower. The cup is bitter to
        the brim. The worm is at his work, and will soon dispose of his victim.
        The sooner the better. But I will not digress.
            Placed in a mental position of peculiar painfulness, beyond the
        assuaging reach even of Mrs. Micawber's influence, though exercised in
        the tripartite character of woman, wife, and mother, it is my intention
        to fly from myself for a short period, and devote a respite of
        eight-and- forty hours to revisiting some metropolitan scenes of past
        enjoyment. Among other havens of domestic tranquillity and peace of
        mind,
