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- 2208
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- 2026-01-30T07:57:45.581Z
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- bed. And well hadst thou deserved it, Jimmy, at that fair creature's
hands; well merited to have the old eyes closed by woman's fairy
fingers, who through life, in riches and in poverty, was still woman's
sworn champion and devotee.
I hardly know that I should mention here one little incident connected
with this young lady's ministrations, and poor Jimmy's reception of
them. But it is harm to neither; I will tell it.
Chancing to be in town, and hearing of Jimmy's illness, I went to
see him. And there in his lone attic I found the lovely ministrant.
Withdrawing upon seeing another visitor, she left me alone with him.
She had brought some little delicacies, and also several books, of such
a sort as are sent by serious-minded well-wishers to invalids in a
serious crisis. Now whether it was repugnance at being considered next
door to death, or whether it was but the natural peevishment brought on
by the general misery of his state; however it was, as the gentle girl
withdrew, Jimmy, with what small remains of strength were his, pitched
the books into the furthest corner, murmuring, "Why will she bring me
this sad old stuff? Does she take me for a pauper? Thinks she to salve
a gentleman's heart with Poor Man's Plaster?"
Poor, poor Jimmy--God guard us all--poor Jimmy Rose!
Well, well, I am an old man, and I suppose these tears I drop are
dribblets from my dotage. But Heaven be praised, Jimmy needs no man's
pity now.
Jimmy Rose is dead!
Meantime, as I sit within the parlor of the peacocks--that chamber from
which his husky voice had come ere threatening me with the pistol--I
still must meditate upon his strange example, whereof the marvel is,
how after that gay, dashing, nobleman's career, he could be content
to crawl through life, and peep about the marbles and mahoganies for
contumelious tea and toast, where once like a very Warwick he had
feasted the huzzaing world with Burgundy and venison.
And every time I look at the wilted resplendence of those proud
peacocks on the wall, I bethink me of the withering change in Jimmy's
once resplendent pride of state. But still again, every time I gaze
upon those festoons of perpetual roses, mid which the faded peacocks
hang, I bethink me of those undying roses which bloomed in ruined
Jimmy's cheek.
Transplanted to another soil, all the unkind past forgot, God grant
that Jimmy's roses may immortally survive!
I AND MY CHIMNEY
I and my chimney, two grey-headed old smokers, reside in the country.
We are, I may say, old settlers here; particularly my old chimney,
which settles more and more every day.
Though I always say, _I and my chimney_, as Cardinal Wolsey used to
say, "_I and my King_," yet this egotistic way of speaking, wherein I
take precedence of my chimney, is hereby borne out by the facts; in
everything, except the above phrase, my chimney taking precedence of me.
Within thirty feet of the turf-sided road, my chimney--a huge,
corpulent old Harry VIII of a chimney--rises full in front of me and
all my possessions. Standing well up a hillside, my chimney, like Lord
Rosse's monster telescope, swung vertical to hit the meridian moon, is
the first object to greet the approaching traveler's eye, nor is it the
last which the sun salutes. My chimney, too, is before me in receiving
the first-fruits of the seasons. The snow is on its head ere on my hat;
and every spring, as in a hollow beech tree, the first swallows build
their nests in it.
But it is within doors that the pre-eminence of my chimney is most
manifest. When in the rear room, set apart for that object, I stand
to receive my guests (who, by the way call more, I suspect, to see
my chimney than me) I then stand, not so much before, as, strictly
speaking, behind my chimney, which is, indeed, the true host. Not that
I demur. In the presence of my betters, I hope I know my place.
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- Chunk 21