It was a misfortune to him, trifle as it might have been to another.

For, while all that was hard and stern in his recollection, remained

Reality on being proved--was obdurate to the sight and touch, and

relaxed nothing of its old indomitable grimness--the one tender

recollection of his experience would not bear the same test, and melted

away. He had foreseen this, on the former night, when he had dreamed

with waking eyes, but he had not felt it then; and he had now.

He was a dreamer in such wise, because he was a man who had, deep-rooted

in his nature, a belief in all the gentle and good things his life had

been without. Bred in meanness and hard dealing, this had rescued him

to be a man of honourable mind and open hand. Bred in coldness and

severity, this had rescued him to have a warm and sympathetic heart.

Bred in a creed too darkly audacious to pursue, through its process of

reserving the making of man in the image of his Creator to the making of

his Creator in the image of an erring man, this had rescued him to judge

not, and in humility to be merciful, and have hope and charity.

And this saved him still from the whimpering weakness and cruel

selfishness of holding that because such a happiness or such a virtue

had not come into his little path, or worked well for him, therefore

it was not in the great scheme, but was reducible, when found in

appearance, to the basest elements. A disappointed mind he had, but a

mind too firm and healthy for such unwholesome air. Leaving himself in

the dark, it could rise into the light, seeing it shine on others and

hailing it. Therefore, he sat before his dying fire, sorrowful to think upon the way

by which he had come to that night, yet not strewing poison on the way

by which other men had come to it. That he should have missed so much,

and at his time of life should look so far about him for any staff to

bear him company upon his downward journey and cheer it, was a just

regret.

He looked at the fire from which the blaze departed, from which

the afterglow subsided, in which the ashes turned grey, from which they

dropped to dust, and thought, 'How soon I too shall pass through such

changes, and be gone!' To review his life was like descending a green tree in fruit and flower,

and seeing all the branches wither and drop off, one by one, as he came

down towards them. 'From the unhappy suppression of my youngest days, through the rigid and

unloving home that followed them, through my departure, my long exile,

my return, my mother's welcome, my intercourse with her since, down to

the afternoon of this day with poor Flora,' said Arthur Clennam, 'what

have I found!' His door was softly opened, and these spoken words startled him, and

came as if they were an answer: 'Little Dorrit.'




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