DOMBEY AND SON.—No. VI. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

New Zealand Spectator and Cook's Strait Guardian, Volume III, Issue 214, 18 August 1847, Page 4

DOMBEY AND SON.— No. VI. BY CHARLES DICKENS.

THE PUNKKAL OP LITTLE PAUL. There is a hush through Mr. Dombey's' house. Servants gliding up and down stairs rustle but make no sound of footsteps. They talk together constantly, and sit long at meals, making much of their meat and drink, and enjoying themselves after a grim unholy fashion. Mrs. AVickharo, with her eyes suffused with tears, i elates melancholy anecdotes ; and tells them how she always said at Mrs. Pipchin's that it would be so, and takes more table ale than usual, and is very sorry, but sociable. Cook's state of mind is similar. She promises a little fry for supper, and' struggles about equally against her feelings and the onions. Towliuson begins to think there's a fate in it, and wants to know if anybody can tell him of any good that ever came of living in a corner-house. It seems to all of them as having happened a long time ago ; though yet the child lies, cnltn and beautilul, upon his little bed. After daik there come some visitors — noisdpss visitors, wth shoes of felt — who have been there before; and with them comes that bed of rest which is so strange a one for infant sleepers. All this time, the bereaved father has not been seen even by his attendant ; for he sits in an inner corner of his own dark room when any one is there, and never seems to move at other times, except to pace to and fio. But in the morning it is whispered among the household that he was heard to go up stairs in the dead night, and that he stayed there — in the room — until the sun w<?s shining. At the offices in the city, the grouiid-giass windows are made more dim by shutters ; and while the lighted lamps upon the de&ks are half extinguished by the day that wanders in, the day is half extinguished by the lamps, and an unusual gloom prevails. There' is not much business done. The clerks are indisposed to work ; and they make assignations to eW. chops in the afternoon, and go uj> the river. Perch, the messenger, stays long upon his errands ; and finds himself in bars of publichouses, invited thither by friends, and holding forth on the uncertainty of human affairs. He goes home to Ball's Pond earlier in the I evening than usual, and treats Mrs. Perch to a veal cutlet and Scotch ale. Mr. Caiker, the manager, treats no one ; neither is he j treated ; but alone in his own room he shows his teeth all day ; and it would seem that there is something gone from Ms. Carkei's path — some obstacle removed — which clears his way before him. Now the rosy children living opposite to Mr. Dombey's house, peep from their nursery* windows down into the street ; for there are four black horses at his door, with feathers on their heads ; and feathers tremble on the carriage that they draw ; and these, and an array oi men with scarves and staves, attract a crowd. The juggler who was going to twirl the basin, puts his loose coat on again over his fine dress; and his trudging wife, one-sided with her heavy baby in her arms, loiters to see the company come out. But closer to her dingy biea*t she presses her baby, when the burden that is so easily carried is borne forth; and the youngest of the rosy children at the high window opposite, needs no restraining hand to check her in her glee, when, pointing with her dimpled finger, she looks into her nurse's face, and asks, " What's that ?" And now, among the knot of servants dressed in mourning, and the weeping women, Mr. Dombey passes through the hall to the other carriage that is waiting* to receive him. He is not " brought down," these observers think, by sorrow and distress of mind. ' His walk is as erect, his bearing is as stiff as ever it has been. He bides his face behind no handkerchief, and looks before him. But that his face is something sunk and rigid, and is pale, it bears the same expression as of old. He takes his place within th.e^carriage, and three other gentlemen follow. Then the grand funeral moves slowly down the street. The feathers are yet nodding in the distance, when the juggler has the basiri spinning on a cane, and has the same crowd to admire it. But the juggler's wife is less alert than usual with the money box', for a child's burial has set her thinking that perhaps the baby undrrneath her shabby shawl may not giow up to be a man, and wear a sky blue fillet round his bead, and salmon-coloured worsted draws* and tumble in the mud. ' The

! feathers wind their gloonqy way along the streets, and come within the sound of a church bell., In, this.s.amechurch,, the pretty boy received all that will soon Jbe left, of him, on carth — a naire. All of him, that is dead, they lay there, near the perishable substance of his mother^ It is well., Their ashes lie where Florence in her walks — oh lonely, lonely walks ! — may pass them any day. The service over, and the, Clergyman withdrawn, Mr. Dombey looks round, demanding, in a low voice, whether the person who has been requested to attend to receive instructions (or the tablet, is there ?" Soms one comes forward, and says " Yes." Mr. Dombey intimates where he would have it placed ; and shows him, with his hand upon the wall, the shape and size ; and how it is to follow the memorial to the mother. Then, with his pencil, he writes out the inscription, and gives it to him, adding, " I wish to have it done at once." " It shall be done immediately, Sir." '* There is really nothing to inscribe but name and age you see." The man bows, glancing at the paper, but appears to hesitate. Mr. Dombey, not observing his hesitation, turns away, and leads towards the porch. " I beg your pardon, Sir ;" a touch tails gently on his mourning cloak; " but as you wish it done immediately, and it may be put in hand when 1 get back — " " Well !" " Will you be so good as read it over again ? I think there's a mistake." " Where ?" The statuary gives him back the paper, and points out, with his poc-ket-rule, the words " beloved and only child." "It should be • son,' I think, Sir?" " You are right. Of course. Make the correction." The father, with a hastier step, pursues bis way to the coach. When tbe other three, who follow close. y, take their seats, his face is hidden for the first time — shaded by his cloak. Nor do they see it any more that (lay. He alights first, and passes immediately into liis own room. The other mourners (who are only Mr. Chick, and two of the medical attendants) proceed up-stairs to the drawingroom, to be received by Mrs. Chick aud Miss Tox. And w hat the face is, in the shut-up chamber underneath, or what the thoughts aie: what the heart is, what the contest or the suffering : no one knows. Tlie chief thing that they know, below stairs, in the kitchen, is that " it seems like Sunday." They can hardly persuade themselves but that there is something unbecoming, if not wicked, in the conduct of the people out of doors, who pursue their ordinary occupations, and wear their every-day attire. It is quite a novelty to ha\e the blinds up, and the shutters open ; and they make themselves dismally comfortable over bottles of wine, which are fieely broached as on a festival. They are much inclined to moralize. Mr. Towlinson proposes, with a sigh, " Amendment to us all !" for which, as Cook says, with another sigh, " ihere's room enough, God knows." In the evening, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox take to needlework again. In the evening also Mr. Towlinson goes out to take the air, accompanied by the housemaid, who has not yet tried her mourning bonnet. They are very tender to each other at dusky street-corners, and Towlinson has visions of leading an altered and blameless existence as a serious greengrocer in Oxford Market.* There is sounder sleep and deeper rest in Mr. Dombey's bouse to-night, than there has been for many nights. The morning sun awakens the old household, settled down once more in their (Id ways. The rosy children, opposite, run past with hoops. There is a splendid wedding in the church. The juggler's wife is active with the money box in another quarter o! the town. The mason sings and whistles as he chips out p-a-u-l in the marble slab before him. And can it be that in a world so full and busy, the loss of one weak creature makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep, that uothing but the width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up! Horence, in her innocent affliction, might have answered, " Oh, my brother, oh my dearly love.! and loving brother ! Only friend and companion of my slighted childhood ! Could any less idea shed the light already dawning on your early grave, or give birth to the softened sorrow that is springing into life beneath this rain of tears !"