WHEN I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with a
severe injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height of
forty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding,
on the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me,
restored me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I was
lying formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from it
without being torn asunder; and, with the most piercing cries, I
entreated my well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. They
desisted for the moment, one running for the doctor, another for a
litter, others surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst my
increasing sense of suffering, the conviction began to dawn upon my
mind, that the injuries were not mortal; and so, by the time the
doctor and the litter arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, and
allowed myself, without further objection, to be carried to the
hospital.
There I remained for more than three months, gradually recovering
from my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at my
condition, and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retarded
it. I felt all the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenly
thrown out of employment difficult enough to procure, knowing that
there were scores of others ready to step into my place; that the
job was going on, and that, ten chances to one, I should never set
my foot on that scaffolding again. The visiting surgeon vainly
warned me against the indulgence of such passionate regrets--vainly
inculcated the opposite feeling of gratitude demanded by my escape;
all in vain. I tossed on my fevered bed, murmured at the slowness of
his remedies, and might have thus rendered them altogether
ineffectual, had not a sudden change been effected in my disposition
by another, at first unwelcome, addition to our patients. He was
placed in the same ward with me, and insensibly I found my
impatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in the
presence of his meek resignation to far greater privations and
sufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon, thanks
to my involuntary physician, I was in a fair road to recovery.
And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless old
man, utterly deformed by suffering, his very name unnoticed, or at
least never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only by
the appellation of No. 12--the number of his bed, which was next to
my own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long and
trying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for the
poor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, in
fact, the whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk on
God's earth; walk--alas! for him the word was but an old memory.
Many years before he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, to
use his own expression, "this misfortune did not upset him;" he
still retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derived
from copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if the
legs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stamped
parchments as diligently as ever. But some months passed by, and
then the paralysis attacked his right arm; still undaunted, he
taught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the brave
heart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on,
and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to be
conveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to the
hospital. There he had the gratification to find his former quarters
vacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with a
satisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obliged
to occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almost
reproachfully on my ear: "Misfortune must have its turn, but _every
day has a tomorrow!_"
It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellent
creature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates,
was a scene of enjoyment to him; everything pleased him; and the
poor fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniences
proved how severe must have been his privations. He never wearied of
praising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, the
quality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity,
when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable old
man could only afford himself, out of the profits of his persevering
industry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese, or
vegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privations
in the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund of
gratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had provided
such a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor did
his thankful spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, you
would have believed him an especial object of divine as well as
human benevolence--all things working for his good. The doctor used
to say that No. 12 had a "mania for happiness;" but it was a mania,
that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage into
all that came within its range.
I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his
little black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume,
which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the
sun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing
and thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might suppose
that the sun was rising for him alone. I need hardly say, that he
soon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiry
respecting its progress. He always found something cheering to
say--something to inspire patience and hope, himself a living
commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionless
figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smiling
countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. At
each painful crisis, he would exclaim: "One minute, and it will be
over. Relief will soon follow. _Every day has its to-morrow!_"
I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimes
to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in
cultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a
kindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer his
cordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: "He is a saint
on earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it
for others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them,
known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feel
ashamed of our own happiness--we feel how comparatively little we
deserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for this
good, poor No. 12?"
"Just try among the bookstalls," I replied, "and find the second
volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six
years since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged to
content himself with the first."
Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of
literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of
printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness
and conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion a man was never
thoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in black
and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in
life, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry and
integrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those
dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face
as he exclaimed, "What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well,
we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter.
Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it
shall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification."
He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume,
which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhat
surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that
it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one,
the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12,
and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty
giver.
I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned his
back, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered,
and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last
entrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old Royal
Almanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer's
ignorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burst
into an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the
only impatient word I ever heard from his lips: "Do you wish our
friend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of this
lost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift.
And what of it? Yesterday I did not care a straw for an almanac; but
in a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired.
_Every day has its to-morrow_. Besides, I assure you it is a very
improving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd of
princes never mentioned in history, and of whom, up to this moment,
I have never heard any one speak."
And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of
poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never
failed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend
happened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of its
success, and would say to me at each time: "It appears I have made
him a famous present." And thus the two guileless natures were
content.
Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of
poor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powers
of motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at
last, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued to
smile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if
his very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching his
bed, inquired if he wished for a drink; he made a slight movement of
his eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of
the rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like a
taper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished--he
looked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I
watched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his
kindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day;
he had entered on his eternal To-morrow.