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 on 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 an
employment difficult enough to procure, knowing 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 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 the 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 to-morrow_.'
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 have supposed
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 visitor 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
intrenchments, 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 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.