Into the hands of common sense I confided the matter.
Common sense, however, was as chilled and bewildered
as all my other faculties, and it was only under the
spur of an inexorable necessity that she spasmodically
executed her trust. Thus urged, she paid the porter:
considering the crisis, I did not blame her too much
that she was hugely cheated; she asked the waiter
for a room; she timorously called for the chambermaid;
what is far more, she bore, without being wholly overcome,
a highly supercilious style of demeanour from that
young lady, when she appeared.
I recollect this same chambermaid was a pattern of
town prettiness and smartness. So trim her waist,
her cap, her dress—I wondered how they
had all been manufactured. Her speech had an accent
which in its mincing glibness seemed to rebuke mine
as by authority; her spruce attire flaunted an easy
scorn to my plain country garb.
“Well, it can’t be helped,” I thought,
“and then the scene is new, and the circumstances;
I shall gain good.”
Maintaining a very quiet manner towards this arrogant
little maid, and subsequently observing the same towards
the parsonic-looking, black-coated, white-neckclothed
waiter, I got civility from them ere long. I
believe at first they thought I was a servant; but
in a little while they changed their minds, and hovered
in a doubtful state between patronage and politeness.
I kept up well till I had partaken of some refreshment,
warmed myself by a fire, and was fairly shut into
my own room; but, as I sat down by the bed and rested
my head and arms on the pillow, a terrible oppression
overcame me. All at once my position rose on me
like a ghost. Anomalous, desolate, almost blank
of hope it stood. What was I doing here alone
in great London? What should I do on the morrow?
What prospects had I in life? What friends had
I on, earth? Whence did I come? Whither
should I go? What should I do?
I wet the pillow, my arms, and my hair, with rushing
tears. A dark interval of most bitter thought
followed this burst; but I did not regret the step
taken, nor wish to retract it A strong, vague persuasion
that it was better to go forward than backward, and
that I could go forward—that a way,
however narrow and difficult, would in time open—predominated
over other feelings: its influence hushed them
so far, that at last I became sufficiently tranquil
to be able to say my prayers and seek my couch.
I had just extinguished my candle and lain down, when
a deep, low, mighty tone swung through the night.
At first I knew it not; but it was uttered twelve times,
and at the twelfth colossal hum and trembling knell,
I said: “I lie in the shadow of St. Paul’s.”
LONDON.
The next day was the first of March, and when I awoke,
rose, and opened my curtain, I saw the risen sun struggling
through fog. Above my head, above the house-tops,
co-elevate almost with the clouds, I saw a solemn,
orbed mass, dark blue and dim—THE DOME.
While I looked, my inner self moved; my spirit shook
its always-fettered wings half loose; I had a sudden
feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at
last about to taste life. In that morning my soul
grew as fast as Jonah’s gourd.
