Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/71

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Charles Dickens]
NEW UNCOMMERCIAL SAMPLES.
[December 19, 1868.]61

tion for a considerable time, after which it is allowed to cool and again assume its crystalline form. The process of squeezing in the press is repeated, and when shaken out of the bags this time the paraffine is seen to have changed from yellow to dirty white, and is consequently so much purer. The operations of dissolving and straining are repeated till perfect pureness and whiteness are obtained. This result achieved, the odour of naphtha which clings to the substance is driven off by steam, and the paraffine, in a liquid state, is run into moulds, which form it into thick round cakes. In this shape it is sent off to the candle-makers.


An Acorn.

Within this little shell doth lie
A wonder of the earth and sky;
Grasped in the hollow of my hand,
But more than I can understand.

A germ, a life, a million lives,
If this small life but lives and thrives,
And draws from earth, and air, and sun,
The endings in this husk begun.

A few years hence, a noble tree,
If time and circumstance agree:
'Twill shelter in the noonday shade
The browsing cattle of the glade.

'Twill harbour in its arching boughs
The ringdove and its tender spouse,
The bright-eyed squirrel, acorn fed,
The dormouse in its wintry bed.

Its stalwart arms and giant girth,
Felled by the woodman's stroke to earth,
May build for kings their regal thrones,
Or coffins to enclose their bones.

And looking further down the groove,
Where Time's great wheels for ever move,
We may behold, all sprung from this,
A woodland in the wilderness.

A forest filled with stately trees,
To rustle in the summer breeze,
Or moan with melancholy song,
When wintry winds blow loud and strong.

And;—would the hope might be fulfilled!
A forest large enough to build,
When war's last shattered flag is furled,
The peaceful navies of the world.

Such possibilities there lie,
In this young nursling of the sky!
We know; but cannot understand;
Acorns ourselves in God's right hand!


New Uncommercial Samples.

By Charles Dickens.

A Small Star in the East.

I had been looking, yester-night, through the famous Dance of Death, and to-day the grim old wood-cuts arose in my mind with the new significance of a ghastly monotony not to be found in the original. The weird skeleton rattled along the streets before me, and struck fiercely, but it was never at the pains of assuming a disguise. It played on no dulcimer here, was crowned with no flowers, waved no plume, minced in no flowing robe or train, lifted no wine-cup, sat at no feast, cast no dice, counted no gold. It was simply a bare, gaunt, famished skeleton, slaying its way along.

The borders of Ratcliffe and Stepney, Eastward of London, and giving on the impure river, were the scene of this uncompromising Dance of Death, upon a drizzling November day. A squalid maze of streets, courts, and alleys of miserable houses let out in single rooms. A wilderness of dirt, rags, and hunger. A mud-desert chiefly inhabited by a tribe from whom employment has departed, or to whom it comes but fitfully and rarely. They are not skilled mechanics in any wise. They are but labourers. Dock labourers, water-side labourers, coal porters, ballast heavers, such like hewers of wood and drawers of water. But they have come into existence, and they propagate their wretched race.

One grisly joke alone, methought, the skeleton seemed to play off here. It had stuck Election Bills on the walls, which the wind and rain had deteriorated into suitable rags. It had even summed up the state of the poll, in chalk, on the shutters of one ruined house. It adjured the free and independent starvers to vote for Thisman and vote for Thatman; not to plump, as they valued the state of parties and the national prosperity (both of great importance to them, I think!), but, by returning Thisman and Thatman, each nought without the other, to compound a glorious and immortal whole. Surely the skeleton is nowhere more cruelly ironical in the original monkish idea!

Pondering in my mind the far-seeing schemes of Thisman and Thatman, and of the public blessing called Party, for staying the degeneracy, physical and moral, of many thousands (who shall say how many?) of the English race; for devising employment useful to the community, for those who want but to work and live; for equalising rates, cultivating waste lands, facilitating emigration, and above all things, saving and utilising the oncoming generations, and thereby changing ever-growing national weakness into strength; pondering in my mind, I say, these hopeful exertions, I turned down a narrow street to look into a house or two.

It was a dark street with a dead wall on one side. Nearly all the outer doors of the houses stood open. I took the first entry and knocked at a parlour door. Might I come in? I might, if I plased, Sur.

The woman of the room (Irish) had picked up some long strips of wood, about some wharf or barge, and they had just now been thrust into the otherwise empty