The dash under the signature, the unnecessary rat-tat of the visitor, the
extravagant angle of the hat in bowing, the extreme unction in the voice,
the business man's importance, the strut of the cock, the swagger of the
bad actor, the long hair of the poet, the Salvation bonnet, the blue shirt
of the Socialist: against all these, and a hundred examples of the swagger
of unreflecting life, did a little brass knocker in Gray's Inn warn me the
other evening. I had knocked as no one should who is not a postman, with
somewhat of a flourish. I had plainly said, in its metallic
reverberations, that I was somebody. As I left my friends, I felt the
knocker looking at me, and when I came out into the great square, framing
the heavens like an astronomical chart, the big stars repeated the lesson
with thousand-fold iteration. How they seemed to nudge each other and
twinkle among themselves at the poor ass down there, who actually took
himself and his doings so seriously as to flourish, even on a little brass
knocker.
Yes, I had once again forgotten Jupiter. How many hundred times was he
bigger than the earth? Never mind, there he was, bright as crystal, for me
to measure my importance against! The street-lamps did their best, I
observed, to brave it out, and the electric lights in Holborn seemed
certainly to have the best of it--as cheap jewellery is gaudiest in its
glitter. One could much more easily believe that all these hansoms with
their jewelled eyes, these pretty, saucily frocked women with theirs, this
busy glittering milky way of human life was the enduring, and those dimmed
uncertain points up yonder but the reflections of human gas-lights.
A city clerk, with shining evening hat, went by, his sweetheart on his
arm. They were wending gaily to the theatre, without a thought of all the
happy people who had done the same long ago--hasting down the self-same
street, to the self-same theatre, with the very same sweet talk--all long
since mouldering in their graves. I felt I ought to rush up and shake
them, take them into a bystreet, turn their eyes upon Jupiter, and tell
them they must die; but I thought it might spoil the play for them.
Besides, there were so many hundreds in the streets I should have to
address in the same way: formidable people, too, clad in respectability as
in a coat of mail. The pompous policeman yonder: I longed to go and say to
him that there had been policemen before; that he was only the ephemeral
example of a world-old type, and needn't take himself so seriously. It was
an irresistible temptation to ask him: 'Canst thou bind the sweet
influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion? Canst thou bring
forth Mazzaroth in his season? Or canst thou guide Arcturus with his
sons?' But I forbore, and just then, glancing into an oyster shop, I was
fascinated by the oysterman. He was rapidly opening a dozen for a new
customer, and wore the while the solemnest face I ever saw. Oysters were
so evidently, so pathetically, all the world to him. All his surroundings
suggested oysters, legends of their prices and qualities made the art on
his walls, printed price-lists on his counter made his literature, the
prospects and rivalries of trade made his politics: oysters were, in fact,
his _raison d'être_. His associations from boyhood had been oysters, I
felt certain that his relatives, even his ancestors, must be oysters, too;
and that if he had any idea of a supreme being, it must take the form of
an oyster. Indeed, a sort of nightmare seemed suddenly to take possession
of the world, in which alternately policemen swallowed oysters and oysters
policemen. How sad it all was--that masterly flourish of the knife with
which the oysterman ruthlessly hurried dozen after dozen into eternity;
that deferential 'Sir' in his voice to every demand of his customer; that
brisk alacrity with which he bid his assistant bring 'the gentleman's
half-stout.'
There seemed a world of tears in these simple operations, and the plain
oysterman had grown suddenly mystical as an astrological symbol. And,
indeed, there was planetary influence in the thing, for there was Jupiter
high above us, sneering at our little world of policemen and oystermen.
His grin disagreeably reminded me--had I not myself that very night
ignorantly flourished on a brass knocker?
It is so hard to remember the respect we owe to death. Yet for me there is
always a feeling that if we direct our lives cautiously, with
proportionate seriousness and no more, not presuming on life as our
natural birthright, but taking it with simple thankfulness as a boon which
we have done nothing to deserve, and which may be snatched from us before
our next breath: that, if we so order our days, Death may respect our
humility.
'The lusty lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armèd knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong captain in the fight';
but such are proud people, arrogant in beauty and strength. With a humble
person, who is careful not to flourish beneath his signature, who knocks
just as much as he means on the knocker, bows just as much as he respects,
smiles cautiously, and never fails to touch his hat to the King of
Terrors--may he not deal more gently with such a one?
And yet Death is not a pleasant companion at Life's feast, however kindly
disposed. One cannot quite trust him, and he doesn't go well with flowers.
Perhaps, after all, they are wisest who forget him, and happy indeed are
they who have not yet caught sight of him grinning to himself among the
green branches of their Paradise.
Yes, it is good that youth should go with a feather in his cap, that
spring should garland herself with blossom, and love's vows make light of
death. He is a bad companion for young people. But for older folk the
wisdom of that knocker in Gray's Inn applies.