God knows I was a happy child at those
times, - happy to nestle in her breast, - happy to weep when she
did, - happy in not knowing why.
These occasions are so strongly impressed upon my memory, that they
seem to have occupied whole years. I had numbered very, very few
when they ceased for ever, but before then their meaning had been
revealed to me.
I do not know whether all children are imbued with a quick
perception of childish grace and beauty, and a strong love for it,
but I was. I had no thought that I remember, either that I
possessed it myself or that I lacked it, but I admired it with an
intensity that I cannot describe. A little knot of playmates -
they must have been beautiful, for I see them now - were clustered
one day round my mother's knee in eager admiration of some picture
representing a group of infant angels, which she held in her hand.
Whose the picture was, whether it was familiar to me or otherwise,
or how all the children came to be there, I forget; I have some dim
thought it was my birthday, but the beginning of my recollection is
that we were all together in a garden, and it was summer weather, -
I am sure of that, for one of the little girls had roses in her
sash. There were many lovely angels in this picture, and I
remember the fancy coming upon me to point out which of them
represented each child there, and that when I had gone through my
companions, I stopped and hesitated, wondering which was most like
me. I remember the children looking at each other, and my turning
red and hot, and their crowding round to kiss me, saying that they
loved me all the same; and then, and when the old sorrow came into
my dear mother's mild and tender look, the truth broke upon me for
the first time, and I knew, while watching my awkward and ungainly
sports, how keenly she had felt for her poor crippled boy.
I used frequently to dream of it afterwards, and now my heart aches
for that child as if I had never been he, when I think how often he
awoke from some fairy change to his own old form, and sobbed
himself to sleep again.
Well, well, - all these sorrows are past. My glancing at them may
not be without its use, for it may help in some measure to explain
why I have all my life been attached to the inanimate objects that
people my chamber, and how I have come to look upon them rather in
the light of old and constant friends, than as mere chairs and
tables which a little money could replace at will.
Chief and first among all these is my Clock, - my old, cheerful,
companionable Clock. How can I ever convey to others an idea of
the comfort and consolation that this old Clock has been for years
to me!
It is associated with my earliest recollections. It stood upon the
staircase at home (I call it home still mechanically), nigh sixty
years ago. I like it for that; but it is not on that account, nor
because it is a quaint old thing in a huge oaken case curiously and
richly carved, that I prize it as I do. I incline to it as if it
were alive, and could understand and give me back the love I bear
it.
