But since those days when I was prepared to put this old world of ours to rights upon all matters, I have seen many sights and heard many sounds, and I am not quite so sure as I once was that my particular views are the only possibly correct ones.Christmas seems to me somewhat meaningless; but I have looked through windows in poverty-stricken streets, and have seen dingy parlours gay with many chains of coloured paper.They stretched from corner to corner of the smoke-grimed ceiling, they fell in clumsy festoons from the cheap gasalier, they framed the fly-blown mirror and the tawdry pictures; and I know tired hands and eyes worked many hours to fashion and fix those foolish chains, saying, "It will please him--she will like to see the room look pretty;" and as I have looked at them they have grown, in some mysterious manner, beautiful to me.
The gaudy-coloured child and dog irritates me, I confess; but I have watched a grimy, inartistic personage, smoothing it affectionately with toil-stained hand, while eager faces crowded round to admire and wonder at its blatant crudity.It hangs to this day in its cheap frame above the chimney-piece, the one bright spot relieving those damp-stained walls; dull eyes stare and stare again at it, catching a vista, through its flashy tints, of the far-off land of art.Christmas Waits annoy me, and I yearn to throw open the window and fling coal at them--as once from the window of a high flat in Chelsea I did.I doubted their being genuine Waits.I was inclined to the opinion they were young men seeking excuse for making a noise.One of them appeared to know a hymn with a chorus, another played the concertina, while a third accompanied with a step dance.
Instinctively I felt no respect for them; they disturbed me in my work, and the desire grew upon me to injure them.It occurred to me it would be good sport if I turned out the light, softly opened the window, and threw coal at them.It would be impossible for them to tell from which window in the block the coal came, and thus subsequent unpleasantness would be avoided.They were a compact little group, and with average luck I was bound to hit one of them.
I adopted the plan.I could not see them very clearly.I aimed rather at the noise; and I had thrown about twenty choice lumps without effect, and was feeling somewhat discouraged, when a yell, followed by language singularly unappropriate to the season, told me that Providence had aided my arm.The music ceased suddenly, and the party dispersed, apparently in high glee--which struck me as curious.
One man I noticed remained behind.He stood under the lamp-post, and shook his fist at the block generally.
"Who threw that lump of coal?" he demanded in stentorian tones.
To my horror, it was the voice of the man at Eighty-eight, an Irish gentleman, a journalist like myself.I saw it all, as the unfortunate hero always exclaims, too late, in the play.He--number Eighty-eight--also disturbed by the noise, had evidently gone out to expostulate with the rioters.Of course my lump of coal had hit him--him the innocent, the peaceful (up till then), the virtuous.
That is the justice Fate deals out to us mortals here below.There were ten to fourteen young men in that crowd, each one of whom fully deserved that lump of coal; he, the one guiltless, got it--seemingly, so far as the dim light from the gas lamp enabled me to judge, full in the eye.
