TWO or three evenings after the institution of Mr. Weller’s Watch, I
thought I heard, as I walked in the garden, the voice of Mr. Weller
himself at no great distance; and stopping once or twice to listen more
attentively, I found that the sounds proceeded from my housekeeper’s
little sitting-room, which is at the back of the house. I took no
further notice of the circumstance at that time, but it formed the
subject of a conversation between me and my friend Jack Redburn next
morning, when I found that I had not been deceived in my impression.
Jack furnished me with the following particulars; and as he appeared to
take extraordinary pleasure in relating them, I have begged him in future
to jot down any such domestic scenes or occurrences that may please his
humour, in order that they may be told in his own way. I must confess
that, as Mr. Pickwick and he are constantly together, I have been
influenced, in making this request, by a secret desire to know something
of their proceedings.
On the evening in question, the housekeeper’s room was arranged with
particular care, and the housekeeper herself was very smartly dressed.
The preparations, however, were not confined to mere showy
demonstrations, as tea was prepared for three persons, with a small
display of preserves and jams and sweet cakes, which heralded some
uncommon occasion. Miss Benton (my housekeeper bears that name) was in a
state of great expectation, too, frequently going to the front door and
looking anxiously down the lane, and more than once observing to the
servant-girl that she expected company, and hoped no accident had
happened 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 she
might preserve that appearance of being taken by surprise which is so
essential to the polite reception of visitors, awaited their coming with
a smiling countenance.
‘Good ev’nin’, mum,’ said the older Mr. Weller, looking in at the door
after 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’ and
shyin’ and gettin’ his leg over the traces to sich a extent that if he
an’t wery soon broke in, he’ll wex me into a broken heart, and then he’ll
never 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 the
door about two feet six from the ground, Mr. Weller introduced a very
small boy firmly set upon a couple of very sturdy legs, who looked as if
nothing could ever knock him down. Besides having a very round face
strongly resembling Mr. Weller’s, and a stout little body of exactly his
build, this young gentleman, standing with his little legs very wide
apart, as if the top-boots were familiar to them, actually winked upon
the 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 and
eight months old as vinked his eye at a strange lady afore?’
As little affected by this observation as by the former appeal to his
feelings, Master Weller elevated in the air a small model of a coach whip
which he carried in his hand, and addressing the housekeeper with a
shrill ‘ya—hip!’ inquired if she was ‘going down the road;’ at which
happy adaptation of a lesson he had been taught from infancy, Mr. Weller
could 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 boy
arter his grandfather’s own heart, and beats out all the boys as ever wos
or will be. Though at the same time, mum,’ added Mr. Weller, trying to
look gravely down upon his favourite, ‘it was wery wrong on him to want
to—over all the posts as we come along, and wery cruel on him to force
poor grandfather to lift him cross-legged over every vun of ’em. He
wouldn’t pass vun single blessed post, mum, and at the top o’ the lane
there’s seven-and-forty on ’em all in a row, and wery close together.’
Here Mr. Weller, whose feelings were in a perpetual conflict between
pride in his grandson’s achievements and a sense of his own
responsibility, and the importance of impressing him with moral truths,
burst into a fit of laughter, and suddenly checking himself, remarked in
a severe tone that little boys as made their grandfathers put ’em over
posts never went to heaven at any price.
By this time the housekeeper had made tea, and little Tony, placed on a
chair beside her, with his eyes nearly on a level with the top of the
table, was provided with various delicacies which yielded him extreme
contentment. The housekeeper (who seemed rather afraid of the child,
notwithstanding her caresses) then patted him on the head, and declared
that he was the finest boy she had ever seen.
‘Wy, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘I don’t think you’ll see a many sich, and
that’s the truth. But if my son Samivel vould give me my vay, mum, and
only 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 the
garments of his grandson. ‘If my son Samivel, mum, vould only dis-pense
vith these here, you’d see such a alteration in his appearance, as the
imagination can’t depicter.’
‘But what would you have the child wear instead, Mr. Weller?’ said the
housekeeper.
‘I’ve offered my son Samivel, mum, agen and agen,’ returned the old
gentleman, ‘to purwide him at my own cost vith a suit o’ clothes as ’ud
be the makin’ on him, and form his mind in infancy for those pursuits as
I hope the family o’ the Vellers vill alvays dewote themselves to. Tony,
my boy, tell the lady wot them clothes are, as grandfather says, father
ought to let you vear.’
‘A little white hat and a little sprig weskut and little knee cords and
little top-boots and a little green coat with little bright buttons and a
little welwet collar,’ replied Tony, with great readiness and no stops.
‘That’s the cos-toom, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, looking proudly at the
housekeeper. ‘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 would
look more like the angel at Islington than anything else of that name, or
perhaps she was disconcerted to find her previously-conceived ideas
disturbed, as angels are not commonly represented in top-boots and sprig
waistcoats. She coughed doubtfully, but said nothing.
‘How many brothers and sisters have you, my dear?’ she asked, after a
short silence.
‘One brother and no sister at all,’ replied Tony. ‘Sam his name is, and
so’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 replying
to it, the housekeeper smiled in great confusion, and said that really
children did ask such extraordinary questions that it was the most
difficult thing in the world to talk to them. Mr. Weller took upon
himself to reply that he was very fond of the lady; but the housekeeper
entreating 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 be
troubled 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’t
it, mum?’ said Mr. Weller, shaking his head waggishly, until Tony looked
at him, when he counterfeited the deepest dejection and sorrow.
‘O, very sad!’ assented the housekeeper. ‘But I hope no little boys do
that?’
‘There is vun young Turk, mum,’ said Mr. Weller, ‘as havin’ seen his
grandfather a little overcome vith drink on the occasion of a friend’s
birthday, goes a reelin’ and 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 young
traitor 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 us
another song!” Ha, ha! “Give us another song,” he says. Ha, ha, ha!’
In his excessive delight, Mr. Weller was quite unmindful of his moral
responsibility, until little Tony kicked up his legs, and laughing
immoderately, 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. It
must ha’ been that ’ere naughty little chap as comes sometimes out o’ the
empty watch-box round the corner,—that same little chap as wos found
standing on the table afore the looking-glass, pretending to shave
himself 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 might
trust that ’ere boy vith a steam-engine a’most, he’s such a knowin’
young’—but suddenly recollecting himself and observing that Tony
perfectly understood and appreciated the compliment, the old gentleman
groaned 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 horses
and feedin’ of ’em vith grass, and perpetivally spillin’ his little
brother 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 happiness
vith another play-feller,—O, he’s a bad one! He’s even gone so far as to
put 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 of
Mr. 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 to
come sich games as these nobody wouldn’t love him, and that his
grandfather in partickler couldn’t abear the sight on him; for vich
reasons Tony’s always good.’
‘Always good,’ echoed Tony; and his grandfather immediately took him on
his 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 the
housekeeper, otherwise deceived by the admirable manner in which he (Mr.
Weller) had sustained his character, might not suppose that any other
young gentleman was referred to, and might clearly understand that the
boy of the watch-box was but an imaginary creation, and a fetch of Tony
himself, invented for his improvement and reformation.
Not confining himself to a mere verbal description of his grandson’s
abilities, Mr. Weller, when tea was finished, invited him by various
gifts of pence and halfpence to smoke imaginary pipes, drink visionary
beer from real pots, imitate his grandfather without reserve, and in
particular to go through the drunken scene, which threw the old gentleman
into ecstasies and filled the housekeeper with wonder. Nor was Mr.
Weller’s pride satisfied with even this display, for when he took his
leave he carried the child, like some rare and astonishing curiosity,
first to the barber’s house and afterwards to the tobacconist’s, at each
of which places he repeated his performances with the utmost effect to
applauding and delighted audiences. It was half-past nine o’clock when
Mr. Weller was last seen carrying him home upon his shoulder, and it has
been whispered abroad that at that time the infant Tony was rather
intoxicated. {306}
* * * * *
I was musing the other evening upon the characters and incidents with
which I had been so long engaged; wondering how I could ever have looked
forward with pleasure to the completion of my tale, and reproaching
myself for having done so, as if it were a kind of cruelty to those
companions of my solitude whom I had now dismissed, and could never again
recall; when my clock struck ten. Punctual to the hour, my friends
appeared.
On our last night of meeting, we had finished the story which the reader
has just concluded. Our conversation took the same current as the
meditations which the entrance of my friends had interrupted, and The Old
Curiosity Shop was the staple of our discourse.
I may confide to the reader now, that in connection with this little
history I had something upon my mind; something to communicate which I
had 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, to
disclose.
To conceal anything from those to whom I am attached, is not in my
nature. I can never close my lips where I have opened my heart. This
temper, and the consciousness of having done some violence to it in my
narrative, laid me under a restraint which I should have had great
difficulty in overcoming, but for a timely remark from Mr. Miles, who, as
I hinted in a former paper, is a gentleman of business habits, and of
great exactness and propriety in all his transactions.
‘I could have wished,’ my friend objected, ‘that we had been made
acquainted with the single gentleman’s name. I don’t like his
withholding 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 fully
satisfied by this time of his being a worthy creature; but in this
respect he certainly would not appear to have acted at all like a man of
business.’
‘My friends,’ said I, drawing to the table, at which they were by this
time seated in their usual chairs, ‘do you remember that this story bore
another title besides that one we have so often heard of late?’
Mr. Miles had his pocket-book out in an instant, and referring to an
entry therein, rejoined, ‘Certainly. Personal Adventures of Master
Humphrey. 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. Miles
again interrupted me, observing that the narrative originated in a
personal adventure of my own, and that was no doubt the reason for its
being thus designated.
This led me to the point at once.
‘You will one and all forgive me,’ I returned, ‘if for the greater
convenience of the story, and for its better introduction, that adventure
was fictitious. I had my share, indeed,—no light or trivial one,—in the
pages 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 this
little 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 and
kindness with which this acknowledgment was received; nor how often it
had risen to my lips before; nor how difficult I had found it—how
impossible, when I came to those passages which touched me most, and most
nearly concerned me—to sustain the character I had assumed. It is enough
to say that I replaced in the clock-case the record of so many
trials,—sorrowfully, it is true, but with a softened sorrow which was
almost pleasure; and felt that in living through the past again, and
communicating to others the lesson it had helped to teach me, I had been
a happier man.
We lingered so long over the leaves from which I had read, that as I
consigned them to their former resting-place, the hand of my trusty clock
pointed to twelve, and there came towards us upon the wind the voice of
the deep and distant bell of St. Paul’s as it struck the hour of
midnight.
‘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 tale
where London’s face by night is darkly seen, and where some deed of such
a time as this is dimly shadowed out. Which of us here has seen the
working of that great machine whose voice has just now ceased?’
Mr. Pickwick had, of course, and so had Mr. Miles. Jack and my deaf
friend were in the minority.
I had seen it but a few days before, and could not help telling them of
the fancy I had about it.
I paid my fee of twopence upon entering, to one of the money-changers who
sit within the Temple; and falling, after a few turns up and down, into
the quiet train of thought which such a place awakens, paced the echoing
stones 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 what
were his reflections whose genius reared that mighty pile, when, the last
small wedge of timber fixed, the last nail driven into its home for many
centuries, the clang of hammers, and the hum of busy voices gone, and the
Great Silence whole years of noise had helped to make, reigning
undisturbed around, he mused, as I did now, upon his work, and lost
himself amid its vast extent. I could not quite determine whether the
contemplation of it would impress him with a sense of greatness or of
insignificance; but when I remembered how long a time it had taken to
erect, in how short a space it might be traversed even to its remotest
parts, for how brief a term he, or any of those who cared to bear his
name, would live to see it, or know of its existence, I imagined him far
more 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, and
found myself before a barrier where another money-taker sat, who demanded
which among them I would choose to see. There were the stone gallery, he
said, and the whispering gallery, the geometrical staircase, the room of
models, 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, in
a kind of loft, what seemed to be a great, old oaken press with folding
doors. These being thrown back by the attendant (who was sleeping when I
came upon him, and looked a drowsy fellow, as though his close
companionship with Time had made him quite indifferent to it), disclosed
a complicated crowd of wheels and chains in iron and brass,—great,
sturdy, rattling engines,—suggestive of breaking a finger put in here or
there, and grinding the bone to powder,—and these were the Clock! Its
very pulse, if I may use the word, was like no other clock. It did not
mark the flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, as though it
would check old Time, and have him stay his pace in pity, but measured it
with one sledge-hammer beat, as if its business were to crush the seconds
as they came trooping on, and remorselessly to clear a path before the
Day of Judgment.
I sat down opposite to it, and hearing its regular and never-changing
voice, that one deep constant note, uppermost amongst all the noise and
clatter 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 or
next,—it still performed its functions with the same dull constancy, and
regulated the progress of the life around, the fancy came upon me that
this was London’s Heart,—and that when it should cease to beat, the City
would 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 and
beggary, vice and virtue, guilt and innocence, repletion and the direst
hunger, all treading on each other and crowding together, are gathered
round it. Draw but a little circle above the clustering housetops, and
you shall have within its space everything, with its opposite extreme and
contradiction, close beside. Where yonder feeble light is shining, a man
is but this moment dead. The taper at a few yards’ distance is seen by
eyes that have this instant opened on the world. There are two houses
separated by but an inch or two of wall. In one, there are quiet minds
at rest; in the other, a waking conscience that one might think would
trouble the very air. In that close corner where the roofs shrink down
and cower together as if to hide their secrets from the handsome street
hard by, there are such dark crimes, such miseries and horrors, as could
be hardly told in whispers. In the handsome street, there are folks
asleep who have dwelt there all their lives, and have no more knowledge
of these things than if they had never been, or were transacted at the
remotest limits of the world,—who, if they were hinted at, would shake
their heads, look wise, and frown, and say they were impossible, and out
of Nature,—as if all great towns were not. Does not this Heart of
London, that nothing moves, nor stops, nor quickens,—that goes on the
same let what will be done, does it not express the City’s character
well?
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 to
beg; they who have slept in beds come forth to their occupation, too, and
business is astir. The fog of sleep rolls slowly off, and London shines
awake. The streets are filled with carriages and people gaily clad. The
jails are full, too, to the throat, nor have the workhouses or hospitals
much room to spare. The courts of law are crowded. Taverns have their
regular frequenters by this time, and every mart of traffic has its
throng. Each of these places is a world, and has its own inhabitants;
each is distinct from, and almost unconscious of the existence of any
other. There are some few people well to do, who remember to have heard
it said, that numbers of men and women—thousands, they think it was—get
up in London every day, unknowing where to lay their heads at night; and
that 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 is
exaggerated, of course. So, each of these thousand worlds goes on,
intent upon itself, until night comes again,—first with its lights and
pleasures, 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 at
thy indomitable working, which neither death, nor press of life, nor
grief, nor gladness out of doors will influence one jot, I seem to hear a
voice within thee which sinks into my heart, bidding me, as I elbow my
way among the crowd, have some thought for the meanest wretch that
passes, and, being a man, to turn away with scorn and pride from none
that bear the human shape.
* * * * *
I am by no means sure that I might not have been tempted to enlarge upon
the subject, had not the papers that lay before me on the table been a
silent reproach for even this digression. I took them up again when I
had got thus far, and seriously prepared to read.
The handwriting was strange to me, for the manuscript had been fairly
copied. As it is against our rules, in such a case, to inquire into the
authorship until the reading is concluded, I could only glance at the
different faces round me, in search of some expression which should
betray the writer. Whoever he might be, he was prepared for this, and
gave no sign for my enlightenment.
I had the papers in my hand, when my deaf friend interposed with a
suggestion.
‘It has occurred to me,’ he said, ‘bearing in mind your sequel to the
tale we have finished, that if such of us as have anything to relate of
our own lives could interweave it with our contribution to the Clock, it
would be well to do so. This need be no restraint upon us, either as to
time, or place, or incident, since any real passage of this kind may be
surrounded by fictitious circumstances, and represented by fictitious
characters. What if we make this an article of agreement among
ourselves?’
The proposition was cordially received, but the difficulty appeared to be
that here was a long story written before we had thought of it.
‘Unless,’ said I, ‘it should have happened that the writer of this
tale—which is not impossible, for men are apt to do so when they
write—has actually mingled with it something of his own endurance and
experience.’
Nobody spoke, but I thought I detected in one quarter that this was
really the case.
‘If I have no assurance to the contrary,’ I added, therefore, ‘I shall
take it for granted that he has done so, and that even these papers come
within our new agreement. Everybody being mute, we hold that
understanding if you please.’
And here I was about to begin again, when Jack informed us softly, that
during the progress of our last narrative, Mr. Weller’s Watch had
adjourned its sittings from the kitchen, and regularly met outside our
door, where he had no doubt that august body would be found at the
present moment. As this was for the convenience of listening to our
stories, he submitted that they might be suffered to come in, and hear
them more pleasantly.
To this we one and all yielded a ready assent, and the party being
discovered, as Jack had supposed, and invited to walk in, entered (though
not without great confusion at having been detected), and were
accommodated 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 with
my old friend’s sober voice; and I am left to muse upon the story we have
just now finished.
It makes me smile, at such a time as this, to think if there were any one
to see me sitting in my easy-chair, my gray head hanging down, my eyes
bent thoughtfully upon the glowing embers, and my crutch—emblem of my
helplessness—lying upon the hearth at my feet, how solitary I should
seem. Yet though I am the sole tenant of this chimney-corner, though I
am childless and old, I have no sense of loneliness at this hour; but am
the centre of a silent group whose company I love.
Thus, even age and weakness have their consolations. If I were a younger
man, if I were more active, more strongly bound and tied to life, these
visionary 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 pass
whole hours in picturing to myself the shadows that perchance flock every
night into this chamber, and in imagining with pleasure what kind of
interest they have in the frail, feeble mortal who is its sole
inhabitant.
All the friends I have ever lost I find again among these visitors. I
love to fancy their spirits hovering about me, feeling still some earthly
kindness for their old companion, and watching his decay. ‘He is weaker,
he declines apace, he draws nearer and nearer to us, and will soon be
conscious of our existence.’ What is there to alarm me in this? It is
encouragement and hope.
These thoughts have never crowded on me half so fast as they have done
to-night. Faces I had long forgotten have become familiar to me once
again; traits I had endeavoured to recall for years have come before me
in an instant; nothing is changed but me; and even I can be my former
self at will.
Raising my eyes but now to the face of my old clock, I remember, quite
involuntarily, 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 dark
staircase corner. I recollect looking more grave and steady when I met
its dusty face, as if, having that strange kind of life within it, and
being free from all excess of vulgar appetite, and warning all the house
by night and day, it were a sage. How often have I listened to it as it
told the beads of time, and wondered at its constancy! How often watched
it slowly pointing round the dial, and, while I panted for the eagerly
expected hour to come, admired, despite myself, its steadiness of purpose
and lofty freedom from all human strife, impatience, and desire!
I thought it cruel once. It was very hard of heart, to my mind, I
remember. It was an old servant even then; and I felt as though it ought
to show some sorrow; as though it wanted sympathy with us in our
distress, and were a dull, heartless, mercenary creature. Ah! how soon I
learnt to know that in its ceaseless going on, and in its being checked
or stayed by nothing, lay its greatest kindness, and the only balm for
grief 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 quiet
stand at will by many a fire that has been long extinguished, and mingle
with the cheerful group that cluster round it. If I could be sorrowful
in such a mood, I should grow sad to think what a poor blot I was upon
their youth and beauty once, and now how few remain to put me to the
blush; I should grow sad to think that such among them as I sometimes
meet with in my daily walks are scarcely less infirm than I; that time
has brought us to a level; and that all distinctions fade and vanish as
we take our trembling steps towards the grave.
But memory was given us for better purposes than this, and mine is not a
torment, but a source of pleasure. To muse upon the gaiety and youth I
have known suggests to me glad scenes of harmless mirth that may be
passing now. From contemplating them apart, I soon become an actor in
these little dramas, and humouring my fancy, lose myself among the beings
it invokes.
When my fire is bright and high, and a warm blush mantles in the walls
and ceiling of this ancient room; when my clock makes cheerful music,
like one of those chirping insects who delight in the warm hearth, and
are sometimes, by a good superstition, looked upon as the harbingers of
fortune and plenty to that household in whose mercies they put their
humble trust; when everything is in a ruddy genial glow, and there are
voices in the crackling flame, and smiles in its flashing light, other
smiles and other voices congregate around me, invading, with their
pleasant harmony, the silence of the time.
For then a knot of youthful creatures gather round my fireside, and the
room re-echoes to their merry voices. My solitary chair no longer holds
its ample place before the fire, but is wheeled into a smaller corner, to
leave more room for the broad circle formed about the cheerful hearth. I
have sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, and we are assembled on some
occasion of rejoicing common to us all. It is a birthday, perhaps, or
perhaps it may be Christmas time; but be it what it may, there is rare
holiday among us; we are full of glee.
In the chimney-comer, opposite myself, sits one who has grown old beside
me. She is changed, of course; much changed; and yet I recognise the
girl even in that gray hair and wrinkled brow. Glancing from the
laughing child who half hides in her ample skirts, and half peeps
out,—and from her to the little matron of twelve years old, who sits so
womanly 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 the
group, who has glanced more than once towards the opening door, and by
whom the children, whispering and tittering among themselves, _will_
leave a vacant chair, although she bids them not,—I see her image thrice
repeated, and feel how long it is before one form and set of features
wholly pass away, if ever, from among the living. While I am dwelling
upon this, and tracing out the gradual change from infancy to youth, from
youth to perfect growth, from that to age, and thinking, with an old
man’s pride, that she is comely yet, I feel a slight thin hand upon my
arm, and, looking down, see seated at my feet a crippled boy,—a gentle,
patient child,—whose aspect I know well. He rests upon a little
crutch,—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, although
I love them dearly. They are very kind to me, but you will be kinder
still, I know.’
I have my hand upon his neck, and stoop to kiss him, when my clock
strikes, my chair is in its old spot, and I am alone.
What if I be? What if this fireside be tenantless, save for the presence
of 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. In
my daily walks I pass a thousand men whose cares are all forgotten, whose
labours are made light, whose dull routine of work from day to day is
cheered and brightened by their glimpses of domestic joy at home. Amid
the struggles of this struggling town what cheerful sacrifices are made;
what toil endured with readiness; what patience shown and fortitude
displayed for the mere sake of home and its affections! Let me thank
Heaven that I can people my fireside with shadows such as these; with
shadows 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 me
company; the meanest man to whom I have ever given alms appears, to add
his mite of peace and comfort to my stock; and whenever the fire within
me shall grow cold, to light my path upon this earth no more, I pray that
it may be at such an hour as this, and when I love the world as well as I
do now.