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always a little old man； he has dwindled into a less old man。 His coat
is a colour； and cut； that never was the mode anywhere； at any period。
Clearly； it was not made for him； or for any individual mortal。 Some
wholesale contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such
quality； and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man； as one of a
long unfinished line of many old men。 It has always large dull metal
buttons； similar to no other buttons。 This old man wears a hat； a
thumbed and napless and yet an obdurate hat； which has never adapted
itself to the shape of his poor head。 His coarse shirt and his coarse
neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and hat； they have
the same character of not being his……of not being anybody's。 Yet this
old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being
dressed and elaborated for the public ways； as though he passed the
greater part of his time in a nightcap and gown。 And so； like the
country mouse in the second year of a famine； e to see the town
mouse； and timidly threading his way to the town…mouse's lodging through
a city of cats； this old man passes in the streets。
Sometimes； on holidays towards evening； he will be seen to walk with a
slightly increased infirmity； and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist
and marshy light。 Then the little old man is drunk。 A very small
measure will overset him； he may be bowled off his unsteady legs with
a half…pint pot。 Some pitying acquaintance……chance acquaintance
very often……has warmed up his weakness with a treat of beer； and the
consequence will be the lapse of a longer time than usual before he
shall pass again。 For the little old man is going home to the Workhouse；
and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often （though methinks
they might； considering the few years he has before him to go out in；
under the sun）； and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than
ever in a grove of two score and nieen more old men； every one of
whom smells of all the others。
Mrs Plornish's father；……a poor little reedy piping old gentleman； like
a worn…out bird； who had been in what he called the music…binding
business； and met with great misfortunes； and who had seldom been able
to make his way； or to see it or to pay it； or to do anything at all
with it but find it no thoroughfare；……had retired of his own accord to
the Workhouse which was appointed by law to be the Good Samaritan of his
district （without the twopence； which was bad political economy）； on
the settlement of that execution which had carried Mr Plornish to the
Marshalsea College。 Previous to his son…in…law's difficulties ing to
that head； Old Nandy （he was always so called in his legal Retreat； but
he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts） had sat in a corner of
the Plornish fireside； and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish
cupboard。 He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune
should smile upon his son…in…law； in the meantime； while she preserved
an immovable countenance； he was； and resolved to remain； one of these
little old men in a grove of little old men with a munity of flavour。
But no poverty in him； and no coat on him that never was the mode； and
no Old Men's Ward for his dwelling…place； could quench his daughter's
admiration。 Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father's talents as she
could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor。 She had
as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners as she
could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain。 The poor little
old man knew some pale and vapid little songs； long out of date； about
Chloe； and Phyllis； and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus；
and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small
internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself
of these ditties； like a weak； little； broken barrel…organ； ground by
a baby。 On his 'days out；' those flecks of light in his flat vista of
pollard old men；' it was at once Mrs Plornish's delight and sorrow；
when he was strong with meat； and had taken his full halfpenny…worth of
porter； to say； 'Sing us a song； Father。' Then he would give them Chloe；
and if he were in pretty good spirits； Phyllis also……Strephon he had
hardly been up to since he went into retirement……and then would Mrs
Plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as
Father； and wipe her eyes。
If he had e from Court on these occasions； nay； if he had been the
noble Refrigerator e home triumphantly from a foreign court to be
presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure； Mrs Plornish
could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart
Yard。 'Here's Father；' she would say； presenting him to a neighbour。
'Father will soon be home with us for good； now。 Ain't Father looking
well？ Father's a sweeter singer than ever； you'd never have forgotten
it； if you'd aheard him just now。'
As to Mr Plornish； he had married these articles of belief in marrying
Mr Nandy's daughter； and only wondered how it was that so gifted an
old gentleman had not made a fortune。 This he attributed； after much
reflection； to his musical genius not having been scientifically
developed in his youth。 'For why；' argued Mr Plornish； 'why go a…binding
music when you've got it in yourself？ That's where it is； I consider。'
Old Nandy had a patron： one patron。 He had a patron who in a certain
sumptuous way……an apologetic way； as if he constantly took an admiring
audience to witness that he really could not help being more free
with this old fellow than they might have expected； on account of his
simplicity and poverty……was mightily good to him。 Old Nandy had
been several times to the Marshalsea College； municating with his
son…in…law during his short durance there； and had happily acquired to
himself； and had by degrees and in course of time much improved； the
patronage of the Father of that national institution。
Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man
held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure。 He made little treats
and teas for him； as if he came in