Chapter 2 - The Second Quarter.
THE letter Toby had received from Alderman Cute, was addressed to a great
man in the great district of the town. The greatest district of the town. It must
have been the greatest district of the town, because it was commonly called 'the
world' by its inhabitants. The letter positively seemed heavier in Toby's hand,
than another letter. Not because the Alderman had sealed it with a very large
coat of arms and no end of wax, but because of the weighty name on the
superscription, and the ponderous amount of gold and silver with which it was
'How different from us!' thought Toby, in all simplicity and earnestness, as he
looked at the direction. 'Divide the lively turtles in the bills of mortality, by the
number of gentlefolks able to buy 'em; and whose share does he take but his
own! As to snatching tripe from anybody's mouth - he'd scorn it!'
With the involuntary homage due to such an exalted character, Toby interposed
a corner of his apron between the letter and his fingers.
'His children,' said Trotty, and a mist rose before his eyes; 'his daughters -
Gentlemen may win their hearts and marry them; they may be happy wives and
mothers; they may be handsome like my darling M- e-'.
He couldn't finish the name. The final letter swelled in his throat, to the size of the
'Never mind,' thought Trotty. 'I know what I mean. That's more than enough for
me.' And with this consolatory rumination, trotted on.
It was a hard frost, that day. The air was bracing, crisp, and clear. The wintry
sun, though powerless for warmth, looked brightly down upon the ice it was too
weak to melt, and set a radiant glory there. At other times, Trotty might have
learned a poor man's lesson from the wintry sun; but, he was past that, now.
The Year was Old, that day. The patient Year had lived through the reproaches
and misuses of its slanderers, and faithfully performed its work. Spring, summer,
autumn, winter. It had laboured through the destined round, and now laid down
its weary head to die. Shut out from hope, high impulse, active happiness, itself,
but active messenger of many joys to others, it made appeal in its decline to
have its toiling days and patient hours remembered, and to die in peace. Trotty
might have read a poor man's allegory in the fading year; but he was past that,
And only he? Or has the like appeal been ever made, by seventy years at once
upon an English labourer's head, and made in vain!
The streets were full of motion, and the shops were decked out gaily. The New
Year, like an Infant Heir to the whole world, was waited for, with welcomes,
presents, and rejoicings. There were books and toys for the New Year, glittering
trinkets for the New Year, dresses for the New Year, schemes of fortune for the
New Year; new inventions to beguile it. Its life was parcelled out in almanacks
and pocket-books; the coming of its moons, and stars, and tides, was known
beforehand to the moment; all the workings of its seasons in their days and