Poor uncle Job Bucket's fortune had driven "him down the rough tide of
power," when first and last we met; all was blighted save the royal heart;
and yet, with shame we own the truth, we blushed to meet him. Why? ay, why?
We own the weakness!--the heart, the goodly heart, was almost cased in
rags!
"Puppy!"
Right, reader, right; we were a puppy. Lash on, we richly deserve it! but,
consider the fearful influence of worn-out cloth! Can a long series of
unchanging kindness balance patched elbows? are not cracked boots receipts
in full for hours of anxious love and care? does not the kindness of a life
fade "like the baseless fabric of a vision" before the withering touch of
poverty's stern stamp? Have you ever felt--
"Eh? what? No--stuff! Yes, yes--go on, go on."
We will!--we blushed for our uncle's coat! His heart, God bless it, never
caused a blush on the cheek of man, woman, child, or even angel, to rise
for that. We will confess. Let's see, we are sixty now (we don't look so
much, but we are sixty). Well, be it so. We were handsome once--is this
vanity at sixty? if so, our grey hairs are a hatchment for the past.
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