It was the 1st of January, 1840. The tide of Time rolls on with the same unvarying steadiness of motion, wearing off the asperities of barbarism, as the great flood of ocean smooths the sharp edges of rugged rocks.
But as the seasons glide away, vainly may we endeavour to throw a veil upon the past; — vainly do we lament, when Winter comes, that our Spring-dreams should be faded and gone, too beautiful to endure; — vainly, vainly do we pray that the waves of a Lethean sea may overwhelm the memories of those years when Time cast flowers from his brow, and diamonds from his wing!
Time looks down upon the world from the heights of the Pyramids of Egypt; and, as he surveys the myriad cities of the universe swarming with life, — marks the mighty armies of all states, ready to exterminate and kill, — views the navies of great powers riding over every sea, — as he beholds all these. Time chuckles, for he knows that they are his own!
For the day must come when the Pyramids themselves, the all but immortal children of antiquity, shall totter and fall; and Time shall triumph over even these.
The strongest edifices crumble into dust, and the power of the mightiest nations fritters into shreds, beneath the hand of Time. The glories of Sesostris are now a vague dream — the domination of Greece and Rome has become an uncertain vision: the heroes of the Crusades have long since mouldered in the earth; — the crescent of the Ottomans menaces Christendom no more: the armadas of Spain are extinct; — the thrones that Napoleon raised are cast down: of the millions that he led to conquest, during his meteor-like career, what numbers have left this busy scene for ever and how varied are the climes in which they have found their graves!
Oh, Time! what is there that can strive with thee — thou that art the expression of the infinite existence of God himself!
Alas! if Time were a spirit endowed with intellect to comprehend, and feelings to sympathise, how would he sorrow over the woes of that human existence, which has now occupied nearly sixty centuries!
Year after year rolls away; and yet how slowly does civilization accomplish its task of improving the condition of the sons and daughters of toil. For in the present day, as it was in the olden time, the millions labour to support the few; and the few continue to monopolize the choicest fruits of the earth.
The rights of labour are denied; and the privileges of birth and wealth are dominant.
And ever, when the millions, bowed down by cares, and crushed with incessant hardships, raise the voice of anguish to their taskmasters, the cry is, "Toil! toil"
And when the poor labourer, with the sweat standing in large drops upon his brow, points to his half-starved wife and little ones, and demands the increase of his wages which will enable him to feed them adequately, and clothe them comfortably, the only response that meets his ears is still, "Toil! toil!" And when the mechanic, pale and emaciated, droops over his loom, and in a faint tone beseeches that his miserable pittance may be turned into a fair remuneration for that hard and unceasing work which builds up the fortunes of his employer, the answer to his pathetic prayer is, "Toil! toil!" And when the miner, who spends his best days in the bowels of the earth, hewing the hard mineral in dark subterranean caves at the peril of his life, and in positions which cramp his limbs, contract his chest, and early prostrate his energies beyond relief, — when he exalts his voice from those hideous depths, and demands the settlement of labour's rights upon a just basis, the only echo to his petition is, "Toil! toil!"
Yes — it is ever "Toil! toil!" for the millions, while the few repose on downy couches, feed upon the luxuries of the land and water, and move from place to place in sumptuous equipages!
It was the 1st of January, 1840.
Another New Year's Day — commemorated with feasting by those who had no reason to repine, but marked as the opening of another weary epoch of care and sorrow by those who had nothing for which to be grateful, either to heaven or to man! The first day of January, 1840, was inclement and severe. The air was piercing cold, and the rain fell in torrents. The streets of the great metropolis were swept by a wintery wind that chased the poor houseless wanderers beneath the coverings of arches and doorways, and sent the shivering mendicants to implore an asylum at the workhouse.
It was evening; and the lamps diffused but an uncertain light in the great thoroughfares. The courts and alleys of the poor neighbourhoods were enveloped in almost total darkness; for every shutter was closed, and where there were no shutters, blinds were drawn down, or rags were stretched across the windows, to expel the bitter cold.
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Bibliography
Reynolds, George W. M. The Mysteries of London. vol 1. Project Gutenberg EBook #47312 produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team from images available at Google Books. Web. 2 August 2016.
Last modified 27 September 2016