WHEN I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with asevere injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height offorty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding,on the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me, re-stored me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I waslying formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from itwithout being torn asunder; and, with the most piercing cries, Ientreated my well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. Theydesisted for the moment, one running for the doctor, another for alitter, others surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst myincreasing sense of suffering, the conviction began to dawn upon mymind, that the injuries were not mortal; and so, by the time thedoctor and the litter arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, andallowed myself, without further objection, to be carried to thehospital.
There I remained for more than three months, gradually recoveringfrom my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at mycondition, and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retardedit. I felt all the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenlythrown out of employment difficult enough to procure, knowing thatthere were scores of others ready to step into my place; that thejob was going on, and that, ten chances to one, I should never setmy foot on that scaffolding again. The visiting surgeon vainlywarned me against the indulgence of such passionate regrets--vainlyinculcated the opposite feeling of gratitude demanded by my escape;all in vain. I tossed on my fevered bed, murmured at the slowness ofhis remedies, and might have thus rendered them altogetherineffectual, had not a sudden change been effected in my dispositionby another, at first unwelcome, addition to our patients. He wasplaced in the same ward with me, and insensibly I found myimpatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in thepresence of his meek resignation to far greater privations andsufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon, thanksto my involuntary physician, I was in a fair road to recovery.
And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless oldman, utterly deformed by suffering, his very name unnoticed, or atleast never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only bythe appellation of No. 12--the number of his bed, which was next tomy own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long andtrying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for thepoor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, infact, the whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk onGod'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, touse his own expression, "this misfortune did not upset him;" hestill retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derivedfrom copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if thelegs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stampedparchments as diligently as ever. But some months passed by, andthen the paralysis attacked his right arm; still undaunted, hetaught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the braveheart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on,and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to beconveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to thehospital. There he had the gratification to find his former quartersvacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with asatisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obligedto occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almostreproachfully on my ear: "Misfortune must have its turn, but everyday has a tomorrow!"
It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellentcreature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates,was a scene of enjoyment to him; everything pleased him; and thepoor fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniencesproved how severe must have been his privations. He never wearied ofpraising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, thequality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity,when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable oldman could only afford himself, out of the profits of his perseveringindustry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese, orvegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privationsin the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund ofgratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had providedsuch a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor didhis thankful spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, youwould have believed him an especial object of divine as well ashuman benevolence--all things working for his good. The doctor usedto say that No. 12 had a "mania for happiness;" but it was a mania,that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage intoall that came within its range.
I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with hislittle black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume,which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of thesun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicingand thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might supposethat the sun was rising for him alone. I need hardly say, that hesoon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiryrespecting its progress. He always found something cheering tosay--something to inspire patience and hope, himself a livingcommentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionlessfigure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smilingcountenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. Ateach painful crisis, he would exclaim: "One minute, and it will beover. Relief will soon follow. Every day has its to-morrow!"
I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimesto spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight incultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by akindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer hiscordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: "He is a sainton earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win itfor others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them,known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feelashamed of our own happiness--we feel how comparatively little wedeserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for thisgood, poor No. 12?"
"Just try among the bookstalls," I replied, "and find the secondvolume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than sixyears since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged tocontent himself with the first."
Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror ofliterature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art ofprinting as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idlenessand conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion a man was neverthoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in blackand white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success inlife, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry andintegrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of thosedangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming faceas 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 itshall 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 somewhatsurprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain thatit 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 heartygiver.
I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned hisback, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered,and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his lastentrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old RoyalAlmanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer'signorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burstinto an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with theonly impatient word I ever heard from his lips: "Do you wish ourfriend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of thislost 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; butin 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 veryimproving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd ofprinces 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 ofpoetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid neverfailed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friendhappened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of itssuccess, and would say to me at each time: "It appears I have madehim a famous present." And thus the two guileless natures werecontent.
Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength ofpoor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powersof motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; atlast, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued tosmile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as ifhis very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching hisbed, inquired if he wished for a drink; be made a slight movement ofhis eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray ofthe rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like ataper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished--helooked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as Iwatched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, hiskindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day;he had entered on his eternal To-morrow.
THE END.
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