The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 85, November, 1864: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
History
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 85, November, 1864: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
And now, in these later years and altered times, when even the old
memories and the old associations seemed to have lost their power over
him, and gone were most of "the old familiar faces," and when he felt as
if the game of life were scarcely worth the candle, our melancholy and
forlorn old humorist thus sadly and pathetically writes to the Quaker
poet:--"But town, with all my native hankering after it, is not what it
was. The streets, the shops, are left, but all old friends are gone. And
in London I was frightfully convinced of this, as I passed houses and
places, empty caskets now. I have ceased to care almost about anybody.
The bodies I cared for are in graves or dispersed. My old chums, that
lived so long and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away. When I took
leave of our adopted young friend at Charing Cross, 'twas a heavy
unfeeling rain, and I had nowhere to go. Home have I none, and not a
sympathizing house to turn to in the great city. Never did the waters of
heaven pour down on a forlorner head. Yet I tried ten days at a sort of
friend's house, but it was large and straggling,--one of the individuals
of my old long knot of friends, card-players, pleasant companions, that
have tumbled to pieces, into dust and other things; and I got home on
Thursday, convinced that it was better to get home to my hole at
Enfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner." And at Enfield Elia was
far from being happy or contented. Winter, however,--"confining,
room-keeping winter," with its short days and long evenings, and cozy,
comfortable fireside and cheerful candle-light,--he succeeded in passing
tolerably pleasantly there; but the "deadly long days" of
summer--"all-day days," he called them, "with but a half-hour's
candle-light, and no fire-light"--were fearfully dull, wearisome, and
unprofitable to him, "a scorner of the fields," an exile from London.
And he thought, as he strolled through the green lanes and along the
pleasant country-roads in the vicinity of Enfield, of the days when he
was
"A clerk in London gay,"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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