The
garden-fence, that was so gigantic, is now only a simple paling; its
gate that was such a cumbrous affair--reminding you of Gaza--you might
easily lift from its hinges. The lofty dove-cote, which seemed to rise
like a monument of art before your boyish vision, is now only a flimsy
box upon a tall spar of hemlock.
The garret even, with its lofty beams, its dark stains, and its obscure
corners, where the white hats and coats hung ghost-like, is but a low
loft darkened by age,--hung over with cobwebs, dimly lighted with foul
windows,--its romping Charlie--its glee--its swing--its joy--its
mystery--all gone forever.
The old gallipots and retorts are not anywhere to be seen in the
second-story window of the brick schoolhouse. Dr. Bidlow is no more! The
trees that seemed so large, the gymnastic feats that were so
extraordinary, the boy that made a snapper of his handkerchief,--have
all lost their greatness and their dread. Even the springy usher, who
dressed his hair with the ferule, has become the middle-aged father of
five curly-headed boys, and has entered upon what once seemed the
gigantic commerce of "stationery and account-books."
The marvellous labyrinth of closets at the old mansion where you once
paid a visit--in a coach--is all dissipated.
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