Mr. Meredith's story came next, and it had all of that charm which goes
with the average Meredithian production. To call it dictionaryesque is
not too high praise to bestow upon it. What it was about I never really
gathered, although I of course read it through several times before
accepting it, and perused the proofs carefully some eight or nine times.
There were allusions to Santa Claus in it, however, and I therefore let
it pass, feeling that to the admirers of the master's genius its message
would ring out clear and crisp like the glad chimes of the Christmas
morn; and it was my desire to be the bearer of glad things to all
people, whether I was myself in sympathy with their literary tastes or
not. I recall one page in the story--the last of all, however, which
struck me as a marvel. Fotherington, whom I guessed to be the hero, is
standing on top of a shot-tower in London, about to commit suicide by
jumping down, when all of a sudden Santa Claus appears beside him and
inquires if the tower is a chimney or not. Fotherington gives a
"throat-gasping laugh" and invites Santa Claus to join him in the jump
and find out for himself. The author writes:
"At this, the spirit of the Hourgod, the multitudinous larvae
of his emotions, intensified by the nose-whirling
impertinence of the other, gazed, eyes tear-surging, towards
the reddish northern cheek of the piping East, human in its
bulk, the wharf cranes rising superabundant from the
umbrageous onflowing of the commerce-ridden stream, piercing
the middle distance like a mine-hid vein of purest gold in
the mellowing amber of approaching dawn, flying seaward,
curdling in its mad pressure ever onward, soon to be lost in
the vaguely infinite, beyond which, unconscious of the
perils of the inspired home-coming, lies that of which
homogeneous man may speculate, but never, by reason of his
inflated limitations, approximate without expletion.
"'Beg pardon!' said he, with an interrogation in his
inflection. 'I was not aware of the facts.' Fotherington was
silent for a moment, and then, recognizing Santa Claus, a
shame-surge encarnadined his cheek, and he answered,
strenuously apologetic: 'This is the shot-tower. The sight
of you restores me to life. I shall not again dwell upon
self-destruction. Heaven bless the spirit of the hour.'
"He buried his face in the Saint's pack, and hot tears
sprang forth from his vision.
"'Beg pardon again,' observed Santa Claus, drawing himself
away. 'If you must weep, weep on my shoulder, not on my
pack. The toys are not painted in fast colors.'
"And the two went down together."