or I know
they are the numbers of my years. The visages of two or three are sad
enough, but on the whole 'tis a congregation of jolly ghosts. The
nostrils of my memory are assailed by a faint odour of plum-pudding and
burnt brandy. I hear a sound as of light music, a whisk of women's
dresses whirled round in dance, a click as of glasses pledged by friends.
Before one of these apparitions is a mound, as of a new-made grave, on
which the snow is lying. I know, I know! Drape thyself not in white
like the others, but in mourning stole of crape; and instead of dance
music, let there haunt around thee the service for the dead! I know that
sprig of Mistletoe, O Spirit in the midst! Under it I swung the girl I
loved--girl no more now than I am a boy--and kissed her spite of blush
and pretty shriek. And thee, too, with fragrant trencher in hand, over
which blue tongues of flame are playing, do I know--most ancient
apparition of them all. I remember thy reigning night. Back to very
days of childhood am I taken by the ghostly raisins simmering in a
ghostly brandy flame. Where now the merry boys and girls that thrust
their fingers in thy blaze? And now, when I think of it, thee also would
I drape in black raiment, around thee also would I make the burial
service murmur.

Men hold the anniversaries of their birth, of their marriage, of the
birth of their first-born, and they hold--although they spread no feast,
and ask no friends to assist--many another anniversary besides. On many
a day in every year does a man remember what took place on that self-same
day in some former year, and chews the sweet or bitter herb of memory, as
the case may be. Could I ever hope to write a decent Essay, I should
like to write one "On the Revisiting of Places." It is strange how
important the poorest human being is to himself! how he likes to double
back on his experiences, to stand on the place he has stood on before, to
meet himself face to face, as it were! I go to the great city in which
my early life was spent, and I love to indulge myself in this whim. The
only thing I care about is that portion of the city which is connected
with myself. I don't think this passion of reminiscence is debased by
the slightest taint of vanity. The lamp-post, under the light of which
in the winter rain there was a parting so many years ago, I contemplate
with the most curious interest. I stare on the windows of the houses in
which I once lived,