It had a garret;
very nearly such a one as it seems to me one of us has described in one
of his books; but let us look at this one as I can reproduce it from
memory. It has a flooring of laths with ridges of mortar squeezed up
between them, which if you tread on you will go to--the Lord have mercy
on you! where will you go to?--the same being crossed by narrow bridges
of boards, on which you may put your feet, but with fear and trembling.
Above you and around you are beams and joists, on some of which you may
see, when the light is let in, the marks of the conchoidal clippings of
the broadaxe, showing the rude way in which the timber was shaped as it
came, full of sap, from the neighboring forest. It is a realm of
darkness and thick dust, and shroud-like cobwebs and dead things they
wrap in their gray folds. For a garret is like a seashore, where wrecks
are thrown up and slowly go to pieces. There is the cradle which the old
man you just remember was rocked in; there is the ruin of the bedstead he
died on; that ugly slanting contrivance used to be put under his pillow
in the days when his breath came hard; there is his old chair with both
arms gone, symbol of the desolate time when he had nothing earthly left
to lean on; there is the large wooden reel which the blear-eyed old
deacon sent the minister's lady, who thanked him graciously, and twirled
it smilingly, and in fitting season bowed it out decently to the limbo of
troublesome conveniences.
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