VI
MASTER HUMPHREY, FROM HIS CLOCK-SIDE IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER
TWO or three evenings after the institution of Mr. Weller’s Watch, Ithought I heard, as I walked in the garden, the voice of Mr. Wellerhimself at no great distance; and stopping once or twice to listen moreattentively, I found that the sounds proceeded from my housekeeper’slittle sitting-room, which is at the back of the house. I took nofurther notice of the circumstance at that time, but it formed thesubject of a conversation between me and my friend Jack Redburn nextmorning, when I found that I had not been deceived in my impression.Jack furnished me with the following particulars; and as he appeared totake extraordinary pleasure in relating them, I have begged him in futureto jot down any such domestic scenes or occurrences that may please hishumour, in order that they may be told in his own way. I must confessthat, as Mr. Pickwick and he are constantly together, I have beeninfluenced, in making this request, by a secret desire to know somethingof their proceedings.
On the evening in question, the housekeeper’s room was arranged withparticular care, and the housekeeper herself was very smartly dressed.The preparations, however, were not confined to mere showydemonstrations, as tea was prepared for three persons, with a smalldisplay of preserves and jams and sweet cakes, which heralded someuncommon occasion. Miss Benton (my housekeeper bears that name) was in astate of great expectation, too, frequently going to the front door andlooking anxiously down the lane, and more than once observing to theservant-girl that she expected company, and hoped no accident hadhappened to delay them.
A modest ring at the bell at length allayed her fears, and Miss Benton,hurrying into her own room and shutting herself up, in order that shemight preserve that appearance of being taken by surprise which is soessential to the polite reception of visitors, awaited their coming witha smiling countenance.
‘Good ev’nin’, mum,’ said the older Mr. Weller, looking in at the doorafter a prefatory tap. ‘I’m afeerd we’ve come in rayther arter the time,mum, but the young colt being full o’ wice, has been’ a boltin’ andshyin’ and gettin’ his leg over the traces to sich a extent that if hean’t wery soon broke in, he’ll wex me into a broken heart, and then he’llnever be brought out no more except to learn his letters from the writin’on his grandfather’s tombstone.’
With these pathetic words, which were addressed to something outside thedoor about two feet six from the ground, Mr. Weller introduced a verysmall boy firmly set upon a couple of very sturdy legs, who looked as ifnothing could ever knock him down. Besides having a very round facestrongly resembling Mr. Weller’s, and a stout little body of exactly hisbuild, this young gentleman, standing with his little legs very wideapart, as if the top-boots were familiar to them, actually winked uponthe housekeeper with his infant eye, in imitation of his grandfather.
[Picture: A Chip of the Old Block]
‘There’s a naughty boy, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, bursting with delight,‘there’s a immoral Tony. Wos there ever a little chap o’ four year andeight months old as vinked his eye at a strange lady afore?’
As little affected by this observation as by the former appeal to hisfeelings, Master Weller elevated in the air a small model of a coach whipwhich he carried in his hand, and addressing the housekeeper with ashrill ‘ya—hip!’ inquired if she was ‘going down the road;’ at whichhappy adaptation of a lesson he had been taught from infancy, Mr. Wellercould restrain his feelings no longer, but gave him twopence on the spot.
‘It’s in wain to deny it, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘this here is a boyarter his grandfather’s own heart, and beats out all the boys as ever wosor will be. Though at the same time, mum,’ added Mr. Weller, trying tolook gravely down upon his favourite, ‘it was wery wrong on him to wantto—over all the posts as we come along, and wery cruel on him to forcepoor grandfather to lift him cross-legged over every vun of ’em. Hewouldn’t pass vun single blessed post, mum, and at the top o’ the lanethere’s seven-and-forty on ’em all in a row, and wery close together.’
Here Mr. Weller, whose feelings were in a perpetual conflict betweenpride in his grandson’s achievements and a sense of his ownresponsibility, and the importance of impressing him with moral truths,burst into a fit of laughter, and suddenly checking himself, remarked ina severe tone that little boys as made their grandfathers put ’em overposts never went to heaven at any price.
By this time the housekeeper had made tea, and little Tony, placed on achair beside her, with his eyes nearly on a level with the top of thetable, was provided with various delicacies which yielded him extremecontentment. The housekeeper (who seemed rather afraid of the child,notwithstanding her caresses) then patted him on the head, and declaredthat he was the finest boy she had ever seen.
‘Wy, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I don’t think you’ll see a many sich, andthat’s the truth. But if my son Samivel vould give me my vay, mum, andonly dis-pense vith his—_might_ I wenter to say the vurd?’
‘What word, Mr. Weller?’ said the housekeeper, blushing slightly.
‘Petticuts, mum,’ returned that gentleman, laying his hand upon thegarments of his grandson. ‘If my son Samivel, mum, vould only dis-pensevith these here, you’d see such a alteration in his appearance, as theimagination can’t depicter.’
‘But what would you have the child wear instead, Mr. Weller?’ said thehousekeeper.
‘I’ve offered my son Samivel, mum, agen and agen,’ returned the oldgentleman, ‘to purwide him at my own cost vith a suit o’ clothes as ’udbe the makin’ on him, and form his mind in infancy for those pursuits asI hope the family o’ the Vellers vill alvays dewote themselves to. Tony,my boy, tell the lady wot them clothes are, as grandfather says, fatherought to let you vear.’
‘A little white hat and a little sprig weskut and little knee cords andlittle top-boots and a little green coat with little bright buttons and alittle welwet collar,’ replied Tony, with great readiness and no stops.
‘That’s the cos-toom, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, looking proudly at thehousekeeper. ‘Once make sich a model on him as that, and you’d say he_wos_ an angel!’
Perhaps the housekeeper thought that in such a guise young Tony wouldlook more like the angel at Islington than anything else of that name, orperhaps she was disconcerted to find her previously-conceived ideasdisturbed, as angels are not commonly represented in top-boots and sprigwaistcoats. She coughed doubtfully, but said nothing.
‘How many brothers and sisters have you, my dear?’ she asked, after ashort silence.
‘One brother and no sister at all,’ replied Tony. ‘Sam his name is, andso’s my father’s. Do you know my father?’
‘O yes, I know him,’ said the housekeeper, graciously.
‘Is my father fond of you?’ pursued Tony.
‘I hope so,’ rejoined the smiling housekeeper.
Tony considered a moment, and then said, ‘Is my grandfather fond of you?’
This would seem a very easy question to answer, but instead of replyingto it, the housekeeper smiled in great confusion, and said that reallychildren did ask such extraordinary questions that it was the mostdifficult thing in the world to talk to them. Mr. Weller took uponhimself to reply that he was very fond of the lady; but the housekeeperentreating that he would not put such things into the child’s head, Mr.Weller shook his own while she looked another way, and seemed to betroubled with a misgiving that captivation was in progress. It was,perhaps, on this account that he changed the subject precipitately.
‘It’s wery wrong in little boys to make game o’ their grandfathers, an’tit, mum?’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his head waggishly, until Tony lookedat him, when he counterfeited the deepest dejection and sorrow.
‘O, very sad!’ assented the housekeeper. ‘But I hope no little boys dothat?’
‘There is vun young Turk, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘as havin’ seen hisgrandfather a little overcome vith drink on the occasion of a friend’sbirthday, goes a reelin’ a
nd staggerin’ about the house, and makin’believe that he’s the old gen’lm’n.’
‘O, quite shocking!’ cried the housekeeper,
‘Yes, mum,’ said Mr. Weller; ‘and previously to so doin’, this here youngtraitor that I’m a speakin’ of, pinches his little nose to make it red,and then he gives a hiccup and says, “I’m all right,” he says; “give usanother song!” Ha, ha! “Give us another song,” he says. Ha, ha, ha!’
In his excessive delight, Mr. Weller was quite unmindful of his moralresponsibility, until little Tony kicked up his legs, and laughingimmoderately, cried, ‘That was me, that was;’ whereupon the grandfather,by a great effort, became extremely solemn.
‘No, Tony, not you,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘I hope it warn’t you, Tony. Itmust ha’ been that ’ere naughty little chap as comes sometimes out o’ theempty watch-box round the corner,—that same little chap as wos foundstanding on the table afore the looking-glass, pretending to shavehimself vith a oyster-knife.’
‘He didn’t hurt himself, I hope?’ observed the housekeeper.
‘Not he, mum,’ said Mr. Weller proudly; ‘bless your heart, you mighttrust that ’ere boy vith a steam-engine a’most, he’s such a knowin’young’—but suddenly recollecting himself and observing that Tonyperfectly understood and appreciated the compliment, the old gentlemangroaned and observed that ‘it wos all wery shockin’—wery.’
‘O, he’s a bad ’un,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘is that ’ere watch-box boy, makin’such a noise and litter in the back yard, he does, waterin’ wooden horsesand feedin’ of ’em vith grass, and perpetivally spillin’ his littlebrother out of a veelbarrow and frightenin’ his mother out of her vits,at the wery moment wen she’s expectin’ to increase his stock of happinessvith another play-feller,—O, he’s a bad one! He’s even gone so far as toput on a pair of paper spectacles as he got his father to make for him,and walk up and down the garden vith his hands behind him in imitation ofMr. Pickwick,—but Tony don’t do sich things, O no!’
‘O no!’ echoed Tony.
‘He knows better, he does,’ said Mr. Weller. ‘He knows that if he wos tocome sich games as these nobody wouldn’t love him, and that hisgrandfather in partickler couldn’t abear the sight on him; for vichreasons Tony’s always good.’
‘Always good,’ echoed Tony; and his grandfather immediately took him onhis knee and kissed him, at the same time, with many nods and winks,slyly pointing at the child’s head with his thumb, in order that thehousekeeper, otherwise deceived by the admirable manner in which he (Mr.Weller) had sustained his character, might not suppose that any otheryoung gentleman was referred to, and might clearly understand that theboy of the watch-box was but an imaginary creation, and a fetch of Tonyhimself, invented for his improvement and reformation.
Not confining himself to a mere verbal description of his grandson’sabilities, Mr. Weller, when tea was finished, invited him by variousgifts of pence and halfpence to smoke imaginary pipes, drink visionarybeer from real pots, imitate his grandfather without reserve, and inparticular to go through the drunken scene, which threw the old gentlemaninto ecstasies and filled the housekeeper with wonder. Nor was Mr.Weller’s pride satisfied with even this display, for when he took hisleave he carried the child, like some rare and astonishing curiosity,first to the barber’s house and afterwards to the tobacconist’s, at eachof which places he repeated his performances with the utmost effect toapplauding and delighted audiences. It was half-past nine o’clock whenMr. Weller was last seen carrying him home upon his shoulder, and it hasbeen whispered abroad that at that time the infant Tony was ratherintoxicated. {306}
* * * * *
I was musing the other evening upon the characters and incidents withwhich I had been so long engaged; wondering how I could ever have lookedforward with pleasure to the completion of my tale, and reproachingmyself for having done so, as if it were a kind of cruelty to thosecompanions of my solitude whom I had now dismissed, and could never againrecall; when my clock struck ten. Punctual to the hour, my friendsappeared.
On our last night of meeting, we had finished the story which the readerhas just concluded. Our conversation took the same current as themeditations which the entrance of my friends had interrupted, and The OldCuriosity Shop was the staple of our discourse.
I may confide to the reader now, that in connection with this littlehistory I had something upon my mind; something to communicate which Ihad all along with difficulty repressed; something I had deemed it,during the progress of the story, necessary to its interest to disguise,and which, now that it was over, I wished, and was yet reluctant, todisclose.
To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in mynature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart. Thistemper, and the consciousness of having done some violence to it in mynarrative, laid me under a restraint which I should have had greatdifficulty in overcoming, but for a timely remark from Mr. Miles, who, asI hinted in a former paper, is a gentleman of business habits, and ofgreat exactness and propriety in all his transactions.
‘I could have wished,’ my friend objected, ‘that we had been madeacquainted with the single gentleman’s name. I don’t like hiswithholding his name. It made me look upon him at first with suspicion,and caused me to doubt his moral character, I assure you. I am fullysatisfied by this time of his being a worthy creature; but in thisrespect he certainly would not appear to have acted at all like a man ofbusiness.’
‘My friends,’ said I, drawing to the table, at which they were by thistime seated in their usual chairs, ‘do you remember that this story boreanother title besides that one we have so often heard of late?’
Mr. Miles had his pocket-book out in an instant, and referring to anentry therein, rejoined, ‘Certainly. Personal Adventures of MasterHumphrey. Here it is. I made a note of it at the time.’
I was about to resume what I had to tell them, when the same Mr. Milesagain interrupted me, observing that the narrative originated in apersonal adventure of my own, and that was no doubt the reason for itsbeing thus designated.
This led me to the point at once.
‘You will one and all forgive me,’ I returned, ‘if for the greaterconvenience of the story, and for its better introduction, that adventurewas fictitious. I had my share, indeed,—no light or trivial one,—in thepages we have read, but it was not the share I feigned to have at first.The younger brother, the single gentleman, the nameless actor in thislittle drama, stands before you now.’
It was easy to see they had not expected this disclosure.
‘Yes,’ I pursued. ‘I can look back upon my part in it with a calm,half-smiling pity for myself as for some other man. But I am he, indeed;and now the chief sorrows of my life are yours.’
I need not say what true gratification I derived from the sympathy andkindness with which this acknowledgment was received; nor how often ithad risen to my lips before; nor how difficult I had found it—howimpossible, when I came to those passages which touched me most, and mostnearly concerned me—to sustain the character I had assumed. It is enoughto say that I replaced in the clock-case the record of so manytrials,—sorrowfully, it is true, but with a softened sorrow which wasalmost pleasure; and felt that in living through the past again, andcommunicating to others the lesson it had helped to teach me, I had beena happier man.
We lingered so long over the leaves from which I had read, that as Iconsigned them to their former resting-place, the hand of my trusty clockpointed to twelve, and there came towards us upon the wind the voice ofthe deep and distant bell of St. Paul’s as it struck the hour ofmidnight.
‘This,’ said I, returning with a manuscript I had taken at the moment,from the same repository, ‘to be opened to such music, should be a talewhere London’s face by night is darkly seen, and where some deed of sucha time as this is dimly shadowed out. Which of us here has seen theworking of that great machine whose voice has just now ceased?’
Mr. Pickwick had, of course, and so had Mr. Miles. Jack and my deaffriend were in the minority.
I had seen it but a few days before, and could not help telling them ofthe fancy I had about it.
I paid my fee of twopence upon entering, to one of the money-changers whosit within the Temple; and falling, after a few turns up and down, intothe quiet train of thought which such a place awakens, paced the echoingstones like some old monk whose present world lay all within its walls.As I looked afar up into the lofty dome, I could not help wondering whatwere his reflections whose genius reared that mighty pile, when, the lastsmall wedge of timber fixed, the last nail driven into its home for manycenturies, the clang of hammers, and the hum of busy voices gone, and theGreat Silence whole years of noise had helped to make, reigningundisturbed around, he mused, as I did now, upon his work, and losthimself amid its vast extent. I could not quite determine whether thecontemplation of it would impress him with a sense of greatness or ofinsignificance; but when I remembered how long a time it had taken toerect, in how short a space it might be traversed even to its remotestparts, for how brief a term he, or any of those who cared to bear hisname, would live to see it, or know of its existence, I imagined him farmore melancholy than proud, and looking with regret upon his labour done.With these thoughts in my mind, I began to ascend, almost unconsciously,the flight of steps leading to the several wonders of the building, andfound myself before a barrier where another money-taker sat, who demandedwhich among them I would choose to see. There were the stone gallery, hesaid, and the whispering gallery, the geometrical staircase, the room ofmodels, the clock—the clock being quite in my way, I stopped him there,and chose that sight from all the rest.
I groped my way into the Turret which it occupies, and saw before me, ina kind of loft, what seemed to be a great, old oaken press with foldingdoors. These being thrown back by the attendant (who was sleeping when Icame upon him, and looked a drowsy fellow, as though his closecompanionship with Time had made him quite indifferent to it), discloseda complicated crowd of wheels and chains in iron and brass,—great,sturdy, rattling engines,—suggestive of breaking a finger put in here orthere, and grinding the bone to powder,—and these were the Clock! Itsvery pulse, if I may use the word, was like no other clock. It did notmark the flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, as though itwould check old Time, and have him stay his pace in pity, but measured itwith one sledge-hammer beat, as if its business were to crush the secondsas they came trooping on, and remorselessly to clear a path before theDay of Judgment.
I sat down opposite to it, and hearing its regular and never-changingvoice, that one deep constant note, uppermost amongst all the noise andclatter in the streets below,—marking that, let that tumult rise or fall,go on or stop,—let it be night or noon, to-morrow or to-day, this year ornext,—it still performed its functions with the same dull constancy, andregulated the progress of the life around, the fancy came upon me thatthis was London’s Heart,—and that when it should cease to beat, the Citywould be no more.
It is night. Calm and unmoved amidst the scenes that darkness favours,the great heart of London throbs in its Giant breast. Wealth andbeggary, vice and virtue, guilt and innocence, repletion and the diresthunger, all treading on each other and crowding together, are gatheredround it. Draw but a little circle above the clustering housetops, andyou shall have within its space everything, with its opposite extreme andcontradiction, close beside. Where yonder feeble light is shining, a manis but this moment dead. The taper at a few yards’ distance is seen byeyes that have this instant opened on the world. There are two housesseparated by but an inch or two of wall. In one, there are quiet mindsat rest; in the other, a waking conscience that one might think wouldtrouble the very air. In that close corner where the roofs shrink downand cower together as if to hide their secrets from the handsome streethard by, there are such dark crimes, such miseries and horrors, as couldbe hardly told in whispers. In the handsome street, there are folksasleep who have dwelt there all their lives, and have no more knowledgeof these things than if they had never been, or were transacted at theremotest limits of the world,—who, if they were hinted at, would shaketheir heads, look wise, and frown, and say they were impossible, and outof Nature,—as if all great towns were not. Does not this Heart ofLondon, that nothing moves, nor stops, nor quickens,—that goes on thesame let what will be done, does it not express the City’s characterwell?
The day begins to break, and soon there is the hum and noise of life.Those who have spent the night on doorsteps and cold stones crawl off tobeg; they who have slept in beds come forth to their occupation, too, andbusiness is astir. The fog of sleep rolls slowly off, and London shinesawake. The streets are filled with carriages and people gaily clad. Thejails are full, too, to the throat, nor have the workhouses or hospitalsmuch room to spare. The courts of law are crowded. Taverns have theirregular frequenters by this time, and every mart of traffic has itsthrong. Each of these places is a world, and has its own inhabitants;each is distinct from, and almost unconscious of the existence of anyother. There are some few people well to do, who remember to have heardit said, that numbers of men and women—thousands, they think it was—getup in London every day, unknowing where to lay their heads at night; andthat there are quarters of the town where misery and famine always are.They don’t believe it quite,—there may be some truth in it, but it isexaggerated, of course. So, each of these thousand worlds goes on,intent upon itself, until night comes again,—first with its lights andpleasures, and its cheerful streets; then with its guilt and darkness.
Heart of London, there is a moral in thy every stroke! as I look on atthy indomitable working, which neither death, nor press of life, norgrief, nor gladness out of doors will influence one jot, I seem to hear avoice within thee which sinks into my heart, bidding me, as I elbow myway among the crowd, have some thought for the meanest wretch thatpasses, and, being a man, to turn away with scorn and pride from nonethat bear the human shape.
* * * * *
I am by no means sure that I might not have been tempted to enlarge uponthe subject, had not the papers that lay before me on the table been asilent reproach for even this digression. I took them up again when Ihad got thus far, and seriously prepared to read.
The handwriting was strange to me, for the manuscript had been fairlycopied. As it is against our rules, in such a case, to inquire into theauthorship until the reading is concluded, I could only glance at thedifferent faces round me, in search of some expression which shouldbetray the writer. Whoever he might be, he was prepared for this, andgave no sign for my enlightenment.
I had the papers in my hand, when my deaf friend interposed with asuggestion.
‘It has occurred to me,’ he said, ‘bearing in mind your sequel to thetale we have finished, that if such of us as have anything to relate ofour own lives could interweave it with our contribution to the Clock, itwould be well to do so. This need be no restraint upon us, either as totime, or place, or incident, since any real passage of this kind may besurrounded by fictitious circumstances, and represented by fictitiouscharacters. What if we make this an article of agreement amongourselves?’
The proposition was cordially received, but the difficulty appeared to bethat here was a long story written before we had thought of it.
‘Unless,’ said I, ‘it should have happened that the writer of thistale—which is not impossible, for men are apt to do so when theywrite—has actually mingled with it something of his own endurance andexperience.’
Nobody spoke, but I thought I detected in one quarter that this wasreally the case.
‘If I have no assurance to the contrary,’ I added, therefore, ‘I shalltake it for granted that he has done so, and that even these papers comewithin our new agreement. Everybody being mute, we hold thatunderstanding if you please.’
And here I was about to begin again, when Jack informed us softly, thatduring the progress of our la
st narrative, Mr. Weller’s Watch hadadjourned its sittings from the kitchen, and regularly met outside ourdoor, where he had no doubt that august body would be found at thepresent moment. As this was for the convenience of listening to ourstories, he submitted that they might be suffered to come in, and hearthem more pleasantly.
To this we one and all yielded a ready assent, and the party beingdiscovered, as Jack had supposed, and invited to walk in, entered (thoughnot without great confusion at having been detected), and wereaccommodated with chairs at a little distance.
Then, the lamp being trimmed, the fire well stirred and burning brightly,the hearth clean swept, the curtains closely drawn, the clock wound up,we entered on our new story. {311}
[Picture: Master Humphrey’s Visionary Friends]
It is again midnight. My fire burns cheerfully; the room is filled withmy old friend’s sober voice; and I am left to muse upon the story we havejust now finished.
It makes me smile, at such a time as this, to think if there were any oneto see me sitting in my easy-chair, my gray head hanging down, my eyesbent thoughtfully upon the glowing embers, and my crutch—emblem of myhelplessness—lying upon the hearth at my feet, how solitary I shouldseem. Yet though I am the sole tenant of this chimney-corner, though Iam childless and old, I have no sense of loneliness at this hour; but amthe centre of a silent group whose company I love.
Thus, even age and weakness have their consolations. If I were a youngerman, if I were more active, more strongly bound and tied to life, thesevisionary friends would shun me, or I should desire to fly from them.Being what I am, I can court their society, and delight in it; and passwhole hours in picturing to myself the shadows that perchance flock everynight into this chamber, and in imagining with pleasure what kind ofinterest they have in the frail, feeble mortal who is its soleinhabitant.
All the friends I have ever lost I find again among these visitors. Ilove to fancy their spirits hovering about me, feeling still some earthlykindness for their old companion, and watching his decay. ‘He is weaker,he declines apace, he draws nearer and nearer to us, and will soon beconscious of our existence.’ What is there to alarm me in this? It isencouragement and hope.
These thoughts have never crowded on me half so fast as they have doneto-night. Faces I had long forgotten have become familiar to me onceagain; traits I had endeavoured to recall for years have come before mein an instant; nothing is changed but me; and even I can be my formerself at will.
Raising my eyes but now to the face of my old clock, I remember, quiteinvoluntarily, the veneration, not unmixed with a sort of childish awe,with which I used to sit and watch it as it ticked, unheeded in a darkstaircase corner. I recollect looking more grave and steady when I metits dusty face, as if, having that strange kind of life within it, andbeing free from all excess of vulgar appetite, and warning all the houseby night and day, it were a sage. How often have I listened to it as ittold the beads of time, and wondered at its constancy! How often watchedit slowly pointing round the dial, and, while I panted for the eagerlyexpected hour to come, admired, despite myself, its steadiness of purposeand lofty freedom from all human strife, impatience, and desire!
I thought it cruel once. It was very hard of heart, to my mind, Iremember. It was an old servant even then; and I felt as though it oughtto show some sorrow; as though it wanted sympathy with us in ourdistress, and were a dull, heartless, mercenary creature. Ah! how soon Ilearnt to know that in its ceaseless going on, and in its being checkedor stayed by nothing, lay its greatest kindness, and the only balm forgrief and wounded peace of mind.
To-night, to-night, when this tranquillity and calm are on my spirits,and memory presents so many shifting scenes before me, I take my quietstand at will by many a fire that has been long extinguished, and minglewith the cheerful group that cluster round it. If I could be sorrowfulin such a mood, I should grow sad to think what a poor blot I was upontheir youth and beauty once, and now how few remain to put me to theblush; I should grow sad to think that such among them as I sometimesmeet with in my daily walks are scarcely less infirm than I; that timehas brought us to a level; and that all distinctions fade and vanish aswe take our trembling steps towards the grave.
But memory was given us for better purposes than this, and mine is not atorment, but a source of pleasure. To muse upon the gaiety and youth Ihave known suggests to me glad scenes of harmless mirth that may bepassing now. From contemplating them apart, I soon become an actor inthese little dramas, and humouring my fancy, lose myself among the beingsit invokes.
When my fire is bright and high, and a warm blush mantles in the wallsand ceiling of this ancient room; when my clock makes cheerful music,like one of those chirping insects who delight in the warm hearth, andare sometimes, by a good superstition, looked upon as the harbingers offortune and plenty to that household in whose mercies they put theirhumble trust; when everything is in a ruddy genial glow, and there arevoices in the crackling flame, and smiles in its flashing light, othersmiles and other voices congregate around me, invading, with theirpleasant harmony, the silence of the time.
For then a knot of youthful creatures gather round my fireside, and theroom re-echoes to their merry voices. My solitary chair no longer holdsits ample place before the fire, but is wheeled into a smaller corner, toleave more room for the broad circle formed about the cheerful hearth. Ihave sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, and we are assembled on someoccasion of rejoicing common to us all. It is a birthday, perhaps, orperhaps it may be Christmas time; but be it what it may, there is rareholiday among us; we are full of glee.
In the chimney-comer, opposite myself, sits one who has grown old besideme. She is changed, of course; much changed; and yet I recognise thegirl even in that gray hair and wrinkled brow. Glancing from thelaughing child who half hides in her ample skirts, and half peepsout,—and from her to the little matron of twelve years old, who sits sowomanly and so demure at no great distance from me,—and from her again,to a fair girl in the full bloom of early womanhood, the centre of thegroup, who has glanced more than once towards the opening door, and bywhom the children, whispering and tittering among themselves, _will_leave a vacant chair, although she bids them not,—I see her image thricerepeated, and feel how long it is before one form and set of featureswholly pass away, if ever, from among the living. While I am dwellingupon this, and tracing out the gradual change from infancy to youth, fromyouth to perfect growth, from that to age, and thinking, with an oldman’s pride, that she is comely yet, I feel a slight thin hand upon myarm, and, looking down, see seated at my feet a crippled boy,—a gentle,patient child,—whose aspect I know well. He rests upon a littlecrutch,—I know it too,—and leaning on it as he climbs my footstool,whispers in my ear, ‘I am hardly one of these, dear grandfather, althoughI love them dearly. They are very kind to me, but you will be kinderstill, I know.’
I have my hand upon his neck, and stoop to kiss him, when my clockstrikes, my chair is in its old spot, and I am alone.
What if I be? What if this fireside be tenantless, save for the presenceof one weak old man? From my house-top I can look upon a hundred homes,in every one of which these social companions are matters of reality. Inmy daily walks I pass a thousand men whose cares are all forgotten, whoselabours are made light, whose dull routine of work from day to day ischeered and brightened by their glimpses of domestic joy at home. Amidthe struggles of this struggling town what cheerful sacrifices are made;what toil endured with readiness; what patience shown and fortitudedisplayed for the mere sake of home and its affections! Let me thankHeaven that I can people my fireside with shadows such as these; withshadows of bright objects that exist in crowds about me; and let me say,‘I am alone no more.’
I never was less so—I write it with a grateful heart—than I am to-night.Recollections of the past and visions of the present come to bear mecompany; the meanest man to whom I have ever given alms appears, to addhis mite of peace and comfort to my stock;
and whenever the fire withinme shall grow cold, to light my path upon this earth no more, I pray thatit may be at such an hour as this, and when I love the world as well as Ido now.